


Consort

by Valinde (Valyria)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Actually Awful Sex, Aetheling Dean, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arranged Marriage, Bottom Dean, Castiel Whump, Dean Whump, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, King Castiel, M/M, Mild Gore, Miscommunication, Paganism, Painful Sex, Prince Dean, References to Mpreg, Religious Conflict, Traumatized Dean, Very Brief Infidelity (not an affair/love triangle - literally one scene), Violence, Virgin Dean, mild blasphemy, not a kidfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 130,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valyria/pseuds/Valinde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When King John of the West Saxons forms an alliance with a neighboring Christian kingdom, his eldest son Dean ends up playing a role he never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This is an arranged marriage fic with the usual consent issues therein, but the trope is played for angst. It starts off as gratuitous dean!whump and by real-life standards the sexual content in the first portion of the fic is non-consensual, physically painful and psychologically traumatic for Dean. 
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful [HigherMagic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic) for betaing this for me and finally teaching me how dialogue tags work!
> 
> EDIT: since I get a lot of questions about it: the infidelity is one scene, not an affair or love triangle, and is dean/cas centric.  
> EDIT 2: _Please_ don't add this to goodreads!

When the summons arrive for him - a missive from his father ordering him back to the Capital – Dean is actually pleased. Despite the dismal way his last visit back home to Winchester went, it’s been almost a year and he misses his brother. There are his monthly letters from Sam - long rambling things penned in tiny, spidery, script sent tucked in with their father’s orders - but it’s not the same as seeing him in the flesh.

Lord Singer, Dean’s commander and uncle both, doesn’t seem to share his pleasure however. After he reads through the King’s orders he blusters and huffs, yelling at his servants and in general acting like a bear with a toothache. A smile and a few bad jokes are enough to ease his temper though, something Dean’s gotten good at since his father sent him away from court and into his uncle’s tutelage on his 13th namadaeg.

“His _Majesty_ ,” Lord Singer says, inflecting far more scorn into his tone than anyone save the King’s own brother would dare. “Requires you return to Winchester.”

“Does he say why?” Dean asks eagerly. “Or for how long?”

Lord Singer purses his lips and rubs at his beard. His face is set in the same deep frown he wears when he’s strategizing or commanding a close skirmish. Dread is a sudden cold weight in Dean’s guts.

“Is something wrong?” he asks. “Did something happen to Sammy?” There had been no letter from him in the parcel and Sammy is not yet 14, all gangly limbs and awkwardness, growing into manhood but still with the fragility of childhood. A chill, a fever, a fall off a horse, it would not take much to --

His uncle shakes his head, interrupting Dean’s panicked train of thought. “No no, your brother’s fine.”

Relief washes over Dean like a wave, drowning the anxiety he’s prone to where his little brother is concerned. Lord Singer doesn’t look relieved though, he still looks… angry? Worried? Dean can’t quite place his mood.

“Not sure you’ll be back Dean,” he says gruffly, frowning down at his gnarled hands where they rest upon the rickety camp table instead of meeting Dean’s eyes. “Your father’s been looking into a truce with the Northerners. Wants you to come along when he heads up to Eden to treat with their King.”

Dean frowns. His father never takes him on diplomatic journeys. Well, he had done, years ago when Queen Mary was alive. There are soft, foggy memories of sitting in the big wheelhouse with his mother and her ladies floating around somewhere in the back of Dean’s skull. But those journeys had ended when Mary had been killed. His father saw no reason to drag two young children around in a slow carriage if there was no wife to come along with them.

But Dean _had_ turned 18 the month previously.

Things were different now. He is a man fully grown and perhaps his father thought it was time he learned about diplomacy and statecraft instead of battlefield strategy and the most inventive ways to remove an Eastern raider’s head. He should be thrilled at the chance, at the recognition his father gives him, but he isn’t sure if he likes the idea. Life at court does not suit him the way it does Sam. He prefers the sort of existence his uncle has - riding with the men.

Apart from the separation from his little brother, since being taken as Lord Singer’s ward Dean has fallen comfortably into his household (such as it is). His wife Lady Ellen, (a merchant’s daughter he found at a tavern, source of a decades-long rift between John and Robert and the reason the latter now bore the moniker of ‘Lord Singer’ instead of ‘[Aetheling](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aetheling) of Wessex’), his daughter Lady Joanna-Beth, (who at 13 was better with a bow or spear then some of the men under her father’s command), the half dozen servants that followed them on campaign and Rumsfield, his uncle’s spoiled hound. They’ve grown dear to Dean over the years.

It’s not an easy life. For the most part Dean and his uncle live in tents and make shift camps, riding in a long endless trek back and forth along the Eastern borders, pushing back raiders and black-eyed cursed men, maintaining the uneasy status-quo between Wessex and Perdition. But there were also winters spent at Singer’s Hold which meant teasing his cousin Lady Jo, hunting parties after stag and wild boar in his uncle’s forests, feasts every [Wōdnesdæg](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Saxon_paganism#Days_of_the_week) in [Wōden](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Woden#Woden_in_Anglo-Saxon_England)’s honor, riding Impala wherever he pleased, the festival held to honor [Frige](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frige_\(Anglo-Saxon_goddess\)) on [Mōdraniht](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modranicht), the Grand Melees fought in [Thunor’s](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thor) name and best of all, no one telling him what he ought to say or wear or anything else as happened back home at the castle.

Even the prospect of his father finally deeming him worthy of joining his retinue isn’t enough to quell the pang the thought of leaving his uncle’s household brings. Of course in hindsight, Dean’s not sure why he hadn’t thought something like this would happen. His uncle had named him a trained [rídend](http://bosworth.ff.cuni.cz/025791) and therefore a [Thegn](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thegn) in full on his last namadaeg. It makes perfect sense that his father would recall him now to make use of him since his uncle can teach him no more.

“So I’m to go north with the King?” he asks.

Lord Singer nods, a sharp decisive movement. His face is still set in a frown.

Perhaps he is sad to see Dean go?

Or it could be that some completely separate matter in the King’s letter has annoyed him. Whatever the cause Dean knows he will not welcome questions on the subject so he sticks to the matter at hand. “When do I leave?”

“First light. You’re to ride out with your guard.” His uncle sighs. “I suppose that means I’ll have to round the rowdy bastards up…”

Dean smirks. The half dozen thegn who accompanied him from Winchester five years previously had been absorbed by the riotous mass of Lord Singer’s men almost _too_ well. Two are always close at hand, ready to defend their Prince if need be, (Benny and Kevin are just outside Lord Singer’s tent purportedly doing just that, but more likely gambling or gossiping instead), but for the most part they ride, drink, fight and fuck with the common [rídere](http://books.google.com.au/books?id=rxxNYbwLNDwC&pg=PA53&lpg=PA53&dq=r%C3%ADdere+old+english&source=bl&ots=dgvYFYyumY&sig=xlWtIC-eXEDwu6Sp09yLNA8OY3w&hl=en&sa=X&ei=RM8kU8zhC6WSiQfLg4C4Aw&ved=0CDAQ6AEwAQ#v=onepage&q=r%C3%ADdere%20old%20english&f=false), forgoing the grace and dignity of their high birth with whole hearted enthusiasm. Dean has been named [gefædera](http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/gef%C3%A6dera) half a dozen times over since their arrival and no less than three of the children bear variations upon his name, something he is fairly certain his thegn only keep doing because he finds it so embarrassing.

“The bastards and _their_ bastards,” he says.

His uncle lets out a snort of laughter. “No, no; they’ll need to leave their sluts and brats behind,” he says. “There’ll be caterwauling and hair pulling from the whores in the camps when they hear that not only are their rich royal rídend guard leaving them, but their aetheling and all their hopes for tripping him into bed and getting a royal bastard out of him too.”

Dean blushes. He’s well aware of the scheming that goes on amongst the camp followers. A child can mean a fat purse of gold, and many have tried to lure him in between the sheets for the chance of one. Dean’s been tempted… some of them have been beautiful, but the thought of his poor bastard brother Adam hidden away on some backwoods farm and never even spoken of by their father of has always dissuaded him. He could not shun a child like that, even if its mother was a common farmer’s daughter or a whore.

“I’m sure they’ll simply set their sights back onto you uncle,” he says.

Lord Singer rolls his eyes. “I’m too old for all that nonsense. Got it out of my system when I was your age.”

Dean smirks and raises an eyebrow. “So I’ve heard,” he drawls, for there are indeed quite lusty tales told at camp of Lord Singer’s youth.

“Get on with you!” his uncle barks, shooing at Dean like a misbehaving dog. “Round up those good for nothing thegn of yours and pack your gear!”

***

The journey back to Winchester takes a little over 3 weeks. There is flooding in the Middlemarch and they are delayed for three nights waiting for the waters to recede enough to continue on. Dean’s rídend are all in good spirits, eager to see friends and family in the capital and drink and dance and bask in their status as thegn returning from the frontline. They spend their nights polishing their helms and shields and Benny even goes so far as to attempt to wash his stained cloak and tunic, much to the amusement of the other men, who hoot and holler and call him ‘washerwife’ for the rest of the journey.  Benny doesn’t seem to care though, he just washes out his hair and braids it painstakingly, saying that the girls are far more eager to throw their skirts for a man that doesn’t smell like horse piss and just they wait and see.

Dean suspects he has a point. After several months on campaign and their long ride back to Winchester, none of them are particularly appealing. Garth especially has a strong odor about him. They make him ride downwind.

For all that, travel-stained and weary, Dean and his rídend attract many admiring glances when they finally pass beyond the walls of the city and into Winchester proper. There’s much whistling and smiling and a few bawdy offers of discounts yelled down by painted boys and girls from the windows of more disreputable establishments. That evening Dean takes note of his men where they sit at one of the higher tables in the grand High Hall of the castle, and yes, Benny _does_ get more smiles from the ladies and winks and whispers from the serving girls. It appears his neatly braided hair and relative cleanliness has paid off.

Garth is more or less shunned, a space cleared around him on the benches. He doesn’t seem to care though.

For his own part Dean is sat at the high table with a few distant cousins and such Lords and Ladies as are staying in the castle. He has a pleasant enough company in his cousin Lady Gwen and the old priest Murphy, but the king’s seat is empty as his father it seems, is busy. Lady Gwen’s brother, Thegn Christian, sees fit to make disparaging remarks that he probably thinks witty and subtle to the effect that King John cares not for Dean’s return, even after such a long absence. Lady Gwen rolls her eyes and sighs and Dean ignores him. Christian has always been spiteful.

He does not see his father at the evening meal or the drinking and dancing that follows, and he is still locked away with his advisors when Dean retires to his chambers. More distressingly, Sam is not in evidence. When he asks after him he’s informed that he’s been sent south to Lord Campbell as a ward.

Dean’s wonders at that.

The timing is telling, clearly a punishment of some sort, even if Sam is 14 and of an age to be sent away as Dean was. He must have angered their father for him to be sent south right before Dean’s return. Sam has not even left word for him, which is doubly depressing and implies the departure was rushed. Dean retreats to his bedchamber, musty from long disuse, and lays in the dark wondering what exactly will await him when he finally sees his father and what Eden will be like. He is curious to see real Edenish knights. He does not think the tales he has heard of them – men who dress their horses in steel armor and silk hangings and fight with wooden poles - can be accurate.

The King calls for him at dawn.

Dean is roused by his servants and bundled off without so much as a sip of water or a crumb of bread. The clothes in his pack are travel-stained, but those in his room are old and far too small, so despite his wash before bed, he ends up standing before his father in rumbled clothes smelling fainting, as Benny predicted, of horse piss. At least his hair is clean and neatly braided he reflects glumly.

King John gives him a critical once over after Dean bows and greets him appropriately. He looks much as he did when Dean last saw him - tired, his tunic rumpled and his face lined, but strong and proud and everything a West Saxon King should be.

“You’ve not grown much since last harvest,” he says. “And you’ve your mother’s look to you, that Breton Campbell blood.” He does not sound pleased to make the observation. “Your brother will be taller I think.”

Dean nods. Every time he sees Sam he seems to have shot up like a beanstalk. But Dean is hardly _short -_ there’s only a finger’s width difference between him and his father. He’s taller than almost all the men at court.

“For the best,” his father continues cryptically. “If you were too tall the Northerners might take offence. You’re about of height with their king.”

“What of them father?” Dean asks, curious at the treaty that has been spoken of.

His father clasps his hands behind his back and paces a little, crossing the room to regard the map of Wessex and its surrounds painted there – Eden to the north, Perdition to the east, the channel to the south and Dumnonia to the west. There are little painted wooden figures – horses and men – pinned onto it to show the locations of their armies and the suspected movements of Crowley’s raiders and his cursed men.

“I have been corresponding with the Northern King – _Castiel,”_ King John grimaces and twists the strange name on his tongue. “-- for some time now and we have finally agreed on terms to a treaty against Crowley and his horde in the East.”

Dean perks up. Lord Singer has often spoken of his desire to take the fight East, to invade Perdition and end the raids upon their lands once and for all. Talk of taking Crowley’s head and painful items that might conceivably be shoved up his backside were popular themes around the camp fires.

The prospect of an alliance with the Christians in the north against them excites Dean. It means a war instead of constant skirmishes - what every man of Wessex has been hoping for since Crowley and his horde first descended upon their shores before Dean was born. Perhaps that is why his father is bringing him, if there will be talk of strategy and such, he will actually be able to contribute. His uncle had given him more and more free range over the years, and he’d been commanding more or less half their forces at the time he’d been recalled to the Capital. Only Lord Singer himself would be able to provide more thorough insight upon the Eastern incursions, and he is needed on the border.

“That is good news,” he tells his father. “Uncle will be pleased.”

His father snorts. “Oh the thought of getting his hands on all those sharp Northern swords pleased him well enough,” he says. “But he has no understanding of politics, of the cost of coming to such an accord. He thinks with his heart and can be a fool because of it.”

Dean nods in agreement. Lord Singer is a fine strategist and commander, but he _did_ marry a girl he found in a Westmarch tavern. Politics and diplomacy have never been his strongpoint. Dean dismisses thoughts of his uncle and instead focuses upon what he knows of Eden. “Their knights are said to be almost as formidable as our rídend,” he says, refraining from mentioning the wooden pole rumors. “Though slow under all that plate they favor.”

“Oh slow and clumsy,” the king agrees. “They can hardly see out of those stupid helms they wear, and if you dint their armor in the right spot – elbows or knees, they can hardly move.”

A harsh assessment perhaps, but it matches more or less what Dean has heard and his father is usually well-informed on such things.

“We used to get them coming down to win gold and horses in the winter melees.” he continues. “They could take a beating, that’s for sure, but hand to hand isn’t their strong point. What they _are_ good for is the charge. Once they get their speed up, a line of Edenish knights will plow through an army like a freshly tilled field.”

“Riders in plate against Crowley’s men in leather--" Dean begins.

“ _On foot,_ ” his father reminds him, his face scrunching up in disgust. “They _eat_ their horses.”

“--will be no match at all,” Dean finishes.

His father nods, seeming almost excited. “Indeed. Our rídend as the swift blade, the Northern knights as the bludgeon and Crowley and his rabble will be left a splattered mess between us. Even his cursed men, his _‘demons’_ \--” John spits the word distastefully. “--will be no match.”

Dean grins. “I’m no diplomat, but I think whatever it took to reach such an alliance will be worth it.”

He thought his father might smile, pleased that his son agreed so wholeheartedly with him where his brother did not, but instead he just purses his lips and nods, looking hard at the map across the room. It is silent for a long moment.

“You will need new clothes,” his father says at last. “Things suitable to the Northern court. If you turn up in your rídend mail and leather they will most likely take you for a barbarian. They are fond of silk and lace when not encased in steel.” He shakes his head. “A _bizarre_ people.”

“Of course father,” Dean says. “When do we leave? Is there anything you would have me do to prepare?”

John hums thoughtfully and looks him over again. “How is your Enochian?”

Dean blinks. “I… have not had a lesson in years,” he admits. “And they were few to start with.”

“Have one of the perfumed Edenish bedwarmers remind you of your please and thankyous.” John tells him. “The King speaks West Saxon and you won’t need more than that.”

“Very good father.” Dean replies, wondering if Benny will be willing to locate such an individual for him. Venturing beyond the castle to locate a courtesan to practice his Enochian with seems a daunting task and one likely to end in humiliation and crude rumor knowing his luck.

“We’ll be leaving [Frigedaeg](http://www.design.caltech.edu/erik/Misc/days-of-the-week.html) a week from now,” his father says, then waves a hand in dismissal. “Go.”

***

Benny _does_ help him locate a ‘perfumed Eenish bedwarmer’ and Dean spends a few hours over the next week having basic phrases drilled into his brain. After the fourth lesson the woman, a dark-haired beauty who calls herself Lady Lisa and who is the current favorite of Lady Gwen, deems him competent though she adds that his accent is ‘appalling’.

His father bids him chose six rídend for his guard, and though two of the men who’d followed him to Singer’s Hold beg off, preferring to remain in Winchester with their families for a time, the rest are happy to continue in his service, Benny especially. Apparently he proved _too_ popular with the ladies and caused some sort of scandal in the lower keep. Something involving the honor of a priestess of Wōden, a serving girl and the wrath of the gods. Old Murphy certainly glowers whenever he catches sight of him. 

The rest of his time passes in uncomfortable fittings involving _awful_ clothes in the Northern style, (his father hadn’t been kidding about the silk), calls from cousins and courtiers seeking favor or gossip, and a few sneaked visits to Impala in the stables. He even has to cut his hair, which seems incredibly unfair to him since no one else riding north is asked to. He sulks for an entire afternoon after his braids are shorn down so that all that remains on his head is a short golden brown fuzz. His cousin Christian laughs when he passes him in the halls and makes loud comments about lice over the evening meal.

Dean writes to Sam, filling him in on his boredom and all the tedious activities he’s forced to endure, (perhaps complaining about his hair more than is fitting for an aetheling), and asking for news of him and their kin in the west.

Their grandfather Lord Campbell is not someone Dean knows well. He rarely comes to court and does not get along well with their father. Apart from their cousins Gwen and Christian, who live in Winchester, Dean is not familiar with any of the Campbells. He hopes for his brother’s sake that they are more like Gwen and their late mother than Christian. For as long as Dean can remember, his cousin has delighted in antagonizing him. Despite the fact that they are both grown men, it is a habit he does not seem to have grown out of.

To his dismay, the day before they are due to depart the city, his father informs him Christian has volunteered to serve as one of his guard. On the surface it is a gesture of respect and honor, but Dean has no doubt his cousin only intends to make himself a nuisance. He grudgingly accepts, though he whines a bit about it to Benny until his friend points out that on the road or in the wilds of Eden, Dean will have much less reason to turn the other cheek and that he should instead consider all the opportunities he will have to get his own back. It's a good point.

They leave Winchester before a reply to his letter to Sam can arrive, but his father assures him any correspondence addressed to him will be sent along with his own and will catch up to them in Eden. They travel in a long caravan, baggage packed on mules instead of carts for speed since the king hates to dawdle, and they make good time. The weather is still fairly mild, but it grows steadily colder as they journey north. The thick fur cloak in the Northern style Dean was presented with as part of his new wardrobe is comfortingly snug, but he cannot imagine _why_ they would wear _silk_ underneath of all things. Several layers of wool, or more fur even, seems more reasonable to Dean.

Thankfully not all the clothes that were made for him are Edenish. He has several tunics, both long and short sleeved, along with warm leggings and trousers, in wool and linen - the normal, comfortable Saxon style. Even dressed in those outfits though, it feels strange to be free of the weight of mail and leather, to have his hair shorn short and a thin circlet on his brow in place of a helm, after so long wearing nothing else. The change is not unpleasant though, nor is having servants and a pavilion to sleep in instead of a cloak and a horse blanket on the ground. 

He is still glad that his armor, shield, spear, sword, a few comfortable tunics and his best boots are safely packed with his luggage though. He is unlikely to need them, but the thought of traveling without them, being stuck in... _costume -_  makes him anxious.

A few days are added to their journey by stopping at the larger towns and keeps, but judging from the way they are greeted and feasted, Dean assumes his father has arranged it thus for reasons of politics as much as soft beds and comfort. It is at Castle Turner, home to [Gerefa](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reeve_\(England\)) Rufus, an old ríden who served Dean’s Grandfather King Henry, that Christian - having kept his distance thus far - decides finally to make his presence known in his customary manner.

King John and Gerefa Rufus are still in the high hall drinking after the feast held in John’s honor and Dean is making his way to the chamber given to him for the evening when his odious cousin materializes from nowhere. “Off to bed little aetheling?” he asks in a patronizing tone.

On the merit of them being alone and Dean having had quite a bit of Rufus’s very nice ale with his dinner, instead of ignoring him Dean glares and says: “Fuck off.”

Christian grins. “Oooh, learned some bad words hanging around all those rough rídend and rídereas did you princeling?”

“Amongst other things,” Dean tells him lowly, stepping closer, clenching his hands into fists. He’s spent the last few weeks dreaming of punching his cousin right in his fat mouth and is hoping he’ll finally get his chance.

His cousin doesn’t seem worried though, if anything he smiles wider. “Oh I bet they did,” he says. “You ride like you were born in the saddle, you learn that off them? Those big strong rídereas teach you how to rough ride?”

Dean frowns in confusion, pretty sure from the tone and wording that Christian is implying he’s been fucking men on the campaign, but not sure why. As far as he’s aware the only rumors about him in that regard is that he turns down even the best offers - from men and women alike – and that he’s a prude or frigid or hideously deformed or something. His confusion tempers his anger and he doesn’t bother to dignify his cousin with a response, instead he shoulders past him, shoving him roughly, and continues towards his chamber.

“No?” Christian calls out after him. “Five years on the front and you didn’t give it up then?”

Dean forks his fingers over his shoulder without looking back.

Christian laughs. “Oh I can’t _wait_ till we get to Eden!” he yells.

Dean ignores him but mutters " _Fucking dickhead,_ " under his breath. It makes him feel a little bit better, though punching him would have been far more satisfying.

***

They are greeted at the border by an honor guard of Northern knights. Their armor shines and their helms are decorated with plumes of bright feathers and dyed horse hair. Their cloaks are vibrant with color and yes, Dean stares incredulously, the caparisons covering their horses’ armor _do_ look to be made of silk. _Bright_ silk stitched into checks and patterns. All in all they look _ridiculous_ , but Dean schools his features and attempts to look suitably impressed.

His father makes him change into Northern costume – a silk tunic over a linen undershirt and woolen leggings - and he shivers under his furs as they continue their journey. Benny and Garth seem to find the silk he has to wear endlessly amusing, and spend far too long making teasing remarks about how fine Dean looks in his ‘Edenish Barding’ and how it’s a shame he has no mane for them to braid. Thankfully Victor, the oldest of Dean’s guards, manages to shut them up. Eventually. Christian for the most part rides with King John and though he doesn’t say anything to Dean, he smirks at him like he’s privy to some enormous joke whenever Dean happens to catch his eye. The king hasn’t made _him_ wear silk Dean notes sulkily.

The Edenish knights that lead them all seem to stare an awful lot and the attention makes Dean even more uncomfortable than the silk tunic. A few even introduce themselves in halting West Saxon and make awkward small talk with Dean and his thegn as they ride. In this way Dean learns that it is a ‘great honor’ to escort him to the capital and that there has been much preparation for their arrival and that the _paracleda_ , whatever that is, will be very grand.

Dean wonders if they are as confused by his father’s insistence he dress in their fashions as he is. He has never felt more awkward in his entire life. He thinks of his mail and leather armor longingly and pats at his shorn head despondently.

Thankfully Eden’s capital is only two days ride from the border, otherwise Dean is certain he would have frozen to death in the saddle in his ridiculous clothes, fur cloak or not. Impala copes with the northern chill without complaint however, the big black mare as steady and implacable as ever.

There is no great difference to the countryside they pass through to that of Wessex. It is colder for sure, but the trees look the same, the fields grow the same crops and the peasants look no different to those back home, save a few particulars of dress. The women wear bonnets and hoods and the men tie brightly colored pieces of cloth around their necks and wear their hair short. The houses are different too, narrow boxes two or three stories high, all white-washed and decorated only sparingly with repetitive geometric shapes instead of flowing lines and figures. It is not _ugly,_ but Dean thinks it all very … _boring._

The waving and yelling the peasants and townsfolk indulge in is identical to that back home though, despite the fact that Dean doesn’t understand most of what is said beyond the very basic. His father smiles a lot from beneath his crown, beard neatly trimmed and hair combed out. To Dean it is transparently false, but no one else seems to notice or care. They spend the first night in Eden the Hall of a town Ealdorman they are told call ‘Sir’, which Dean knows is a title given to the Northerners rídend – _knights –_ when they are dedicated to their Christian god. From what Dean can tell the man is similar in rank and status to Gerefa Rufus back in Wessex. Sir Zachariah is grey and run to fat however. He does not look like he has sat a horse in a decade or held a sword in even longer.

Dean pities his husband. A quiet boy perhaps Dean’s age named Inais who Sir Zachariah repeatedly tells them is a cousin to the king. Over the feast held for them that evening, Sir Zachariah smiles and hangs on every word that comes from King John’s mouth, but Dean can see how his simpering does the opposite of impress. His father hates those who try to curry his favor and grows increasingly short with their host.

When Sir Zachariah finally senses this, he turns his attentions to Dean.

 _“Such a pretty son._ ” he tells John. Dean thinks perhaps he has misheard – his Enochian is rudimentary after all and ‘Pretty’ is not a word used to describe men, at least not in Wessex.

His father grunts.

 _“The king *** ** pleased.”_ he continues, and then it is a wall of strange guttural rumblings and Dean only makes a few generic words. He does not like the way the Edenish knight looks at him though. It is calculating and too intent considering his position. Dean is the king’s eldest son, a prince, _aetheling_ , but he is unimportant in the scheme of things. King John is young and strong still and it will be many years before the [Witenagemot](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Witenagemot) is assembled and a new king is chosen to succeed him. Dean wields no real power in Wessex and cannot be of any interest to this King Castiel of Eden, despite the way Sir Zachariah looks at him.

He dismisses the man as a leech and ignores him for the rest of the evening. Christian seems to find his conversation diverting however, sitting close and smiling broadly, eyes flicking over to Dean every now and then with a smug gleam in his eye. Dean regrets not punching him.

The second night they stay in the palace of the king’s aunt, Princess Raphael. She is far more likeable than their previous host. She is welcoming but does not shower King John in platitudes, if anything she is suspicious of him. Of course this actually ingratiates her to Dean’s father, and by the time Dean retires to sleep, they are drinking sweet Edenish brandy and arguing strategy over maps.

The capital of Eden - The Shining City of Zion - is, in contrast to the small towns and villages they have been riding through, not boring at all. It does, in fact, _shine._ There are temples and palaces and tall pale towers all roofed in what looks like polished silver that flashes in the sun. Dean cannot help but stare. It is no larger than Winchester, but it is undeniably grander. Most of the buildings, even in the narrow alleyways right up against the city walls, are of stone. The streets and avenues are all paved, not just the main thoroughfares. There are bright banners hung from the eaves and strung across the streets and there are excited crowds lining them to cheer and stare at the West Saxons. The King instructs Dean, Christian and three of the highest ranking thegn in the party take up each one of several purses of gleaming fresh minted gold bought for just such a purpose, and scatter the coins to the crowd.

Wessex is as rich in gold as it is in iron and King John is clearly set on reminding everyone in Zion of that fact whilst simultaneously winning over the common folk with his supposed generosity. Even though he knows it is just a ploy, Dean cannot help but smile at the Northerners singing out their praises to him in the hopes he will toss a handful of gleaming sceattas in their direction. By the time his purse is empty they are nearly at the tall grand building that can only be the palace and he has forgotten some of his nerves in the excitement and noise.

The palace is an impressive thing of fine white stone and servants in bright robes and dresses are arrayed beyond the huge gate to receive them. Some take their horses, others offer bowls of perfumed water so they can wash the dust of the road from their hands and faces, and others seem to only be around to curtsey and bow and offer accented greetings of welcome in West Saxon. Impala is led away and Dean finds himself following his father up a long flight of stairs and into the dark gaping door of the palace proper. Inside the air is warm and scented with incense. Dean stares.

It is nothing like any palace he has ever been in before. The roof seems so high he half expects to see clouds. Tall windows glassed in a riot of color, showing kings and queens and figures of legend line the walls, lit up from behind so they seem to glow. There are tapestries hung on the walls and silver gilding everywhere Dean looks. Even the sconces on the walls and the hanging candelabra are brightly polished metal. But apart from the vivid glass of the windows, all else is smooth stone and pale polished wood. The only color is from the people. It seems like the entire Edenish Court must be present, because the galleries lining the long hall are packed to bursting with lords and ladies in bright silk and furs decked with silver and gems. They whisper and murmur quietly to each other, staring at Dean and his father and their thegn, but for the most part are eerily silent.

Dean, even though he has been stared at his entire life, feels himself blush under their strange, judgmental scrutiny. His father seems remarkably unconcerned however. He unpins his heavy fur-lined travelling cloak, and throws it off his shoulders with something approaching dramatic flair, before striding up the hall. The cloth-of-gold tunic he wears catches the light and with the polished pommel of his sword at his hip, his thick dark beard and the flash of the crown on his brow, he cuts an impressive figure. His fingers thick and slow, Dean hastens to give his own cloak to a nearby servant and jogs to catch up to him. Behind he hears the creak of mail and armor as their guards follow.

Someone, he thinks Garth, lets out a low impressed whistle.

Dean is so busy _not_ looking at the faces lining the hall and trying to look calm under their watchful gaze, that it is not until his father comes to halt and offers a respectful, though very small, bow to the figure enthroned there, that he realizes the Edenish King is before them.

 _“Greetings to you Castiel, King of Eden,”_ King John intones in clear Enochian.

 _“And to you John, King of the West Saxons,”_ is returned in a deep baritone.

There is a pregnant pause that drags until John glares at Dean out of the corner of his eye. Someone coughs quietly behind them.

Dean, suddenly realizing that _he_ should be likewise greeting their host panics and responds without thought. Instead of bowing, he thumps his fist over his heart and salutes the Northern King as if he was greeting a fellow rídend and not the King of Eden in his own hall. His father does not react but Dean can imagine the lecture he will receive the moment they are alone.

The Edenish king has his head tilted to one side, brows furrowed slightly in confusion. He has very blue eyes.

Dean swallows and forces himself to speak, repeating the phrase of Enochian Lady Lisa had coached him to. _“Blessings of the Lord to you your majesty,"_ he says, or hopes he says.

The King’s expression clears to one of simple politeness once more. _“And his blessings upon you, Prince Dean,”_ he replies in turn.

Dean sighs inwardly. That part, at least, has gone to plan. Hopefully the fuck up with the salute will be dismissed as foreign eccentricity or youthful stupidity.

“You have journeyed far,” the King says in accented but clear West Saxon, “Tonight we will feast in your honor after the _paracleda_ begins, but for now, please rest and accept our hospitality.” He makes a gesture and a woman with burnished red hair dressed in blue silks and glittering white jewels steps forward. “My sister, the Princess Anael, has prepared rooms for you.”

The Princess smiles and performs the strange bobbing ‘curtsey’ of the women of the North. King John offers her a polite nod and Dean remembers to bow not salute. She leads them through the palace, making polite small talk with King John in a mix of lilting West Saxon and sharp Enochian. John is shown to his room first, as befits his rank, and then Princess Anael smiles again at Dean, brighter and less forced than in the hall. “I hope you like your rooms Prince Dean,” she says, her West Saxon accented but clear. “My brother ordered them redecorated so you might feel at home.”

Dean blinks. “Oh? That is… very thoughtful of his majesty,” he says in bemusement.

“They are in the North wing of course,” Anael tells him, sounding more excited as she warms to the topic. “That is the oldest part of the palace, but Castiel insists on having a view over the city from his rooms, so that is where we all have our apartments.” She gives him a rueful, nervous smile.

Dean has no idea why he is being told any of this. He supposes this Princess Anael, who looks to be of a similar age to him, is merely nervous and is babbling. It is possible she is just as uncomfortable as he himself. The thought instantly calms his own nerves. “The city is very grand,” he tells her. “I am sure the view is very impressive.”

Anael’s smile widens, becomes more genuine. “That is true enough I suppose. The drafts are still terrible though.” She eyes the silk tunic Dean is wearing. “As thoughtful as it is for you to dress in the fashions of court, the king will think no less of you should you prefer something warmer.” She drops her voice conspiratorially. “I was _born_ here and I often wear my furs indoors.”

They are silent for a little while, Anael leading Dean with servants, handmaidens and guards trailing along behind them down hallways and across galleries. The palace is large, and the style of it strange, but Dean is oddly relieved that it seems no richer than his own home. From the look of the city and all that soaring white stone, he half expected to find everything encrusted in gems and gold.

To Dean’s shock, the apartment he is shown to is decorated in an approximation of the Wessex style. The furniture is carved from dark wood, bright tapestries hang on the walls and the carpets underfoot are thick southern wool. The bed is huge, reminiscent of the old bed in the King’s Chamber in Winchester Castle, the one that Dean had been born in, except it inexplicably has curtains hung from the ceiling to enclose it.

As if she can read his mind, Anael pulls at the heavy drapes. “It’s not Southern I know, but trust me, you’ll want to keep the warmth in and those drafts I was talking about out come winter.”

“Oh. Of course. Thank you,” says Dean. He gestures to the room in general. “Thank you for all this. It’s… very thoughtful.” It is. Dean is truly dumbfounded. Why would they go to such lengths on his behalf?

Anael smiles again, softer now. “My brother wishes for you to be comfortable,” she tells him.

“I am… sure I shall be,” Dean agrees bemusedly.

“I am so glad!” she says and for a moment Dean thinks she is going to hug him, but instead she just sort of vibrates with energy. “I shall let you rest now Prince Dean, but I will return and help you dress for the _paracleda_!”

“I…” Dean is not sure how to respond to her offer, not that it was really an offer, more of a statement of fact. At a loss, he just says “Thank you?”

Another bobbing curtsey and she’s gone, her ladies and maids following.

Dean frowns at the door after it closes on her. “Is it just me or is this all very strange?” he asks Benny, who is helping himself to a snack at a table laden with food off to one side of the large room.

“S’very strange y’highness,” he agrees around a mouthful of what looks like some sort of pastry.

Instantly Dean’s thoughts are derailed by food. There are little cakes and pastries and other strange _delicious_ things arranged on plates and Dean samples them all, letting his guards and servants finish off the rest as his belongings are brought up and unpacked.

He falls asleep on the big bed with the taste of honey cake in his mouth.

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is vaguely set in medieval England around 800AD. Dean is an Anglo-Saxon Aetheling from [Wessex](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wessex), and Castiel is the King of Eden, a kingdom based loosely upon [ Mercia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mercia). They were one of the last Anglo-Saxon kingdoms to convert to Christianity, but I’ve switched that around here to fit with Dean and Cas, since it seemed like a huuuuge waste not to use Wessex as Dean’s home since the capital was actually _Winchester_. Perdition is Essex and East Anglia which were two of the first Anglo-Saxon kingdoms to fall to the [‘Great Heathen Army’](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Heathen_Army) (played by Crowley and Co. here) that came along in the 800’s and took over most of south-east Britain.
> 
> They spoke West Saxon in Wessex which was a dialect of what we now call Old English, which is what I’ve used here in bits and pieces. There is a bit of Enochian too.
> 
>  **Mpreg** – In this fantasy setting dudes can have babies. There aren’t ‘carriers’ or ‘omegas’, men just magically have a womb and whatnot up their jacksies. 
> 
> **Race** – Again this is a fantasy setting, but if you want an explanation for a Victor/Raphael/Kevin/Uriel chilling in medieval England - maybe there was more trade in this Alternate Universe and people traveled more, or maybe there were some tribes from wherever that settled in Britain. At any rate, in this version of Britain there are a more races around and no one cares.
> 
>  **Religion** \- The West Saxons here are Anglo-Saxon pagans, which was sort of a mix of Norse Paganism with the Celtic/Breton stuff that was already happening in Britain before they rocked up. The Edenish are Christians. Since this is told from Dean's POV it's slightly more pro-paganism than Christianity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings:** painful sex and dub-con in this chapter.

Princess Anael returns before sunset with what seems to be an army of maids. They carry armfuls of silk and linen which Dean eyes dubiously.  His own servants have already unpacked his clothes and he has dressed in one of the richer, but simple enough not to be humiliating, outfits.

Anael’s eyes flick over the long tunic and trousers. “That's very nice Prince Dean, but you must wear the robes,” she tells him. “It is tradition.”

“Robes?” Dean asks, not liking the sound of that at all. “No one mentioned _robes_...”

“Oh yes!” Anael enthuses as her maids buzz around the room leaving piles of silk and bits of god knows what all over. A pretty girl in a green dress bends over to put down something on the bed and Benny eyes her backside obviously. “It’s a very old tradition,” Anael continues. “Don’t worry, no one will expect you to wear robes outside of special occasions.” She waves her hand at his tunic. “You needn’t bother with Edenish tunics even, I doubt Castiel will mind if you wish to dress in the Southern style. He wants you to be comfortable.”

There is that word again, _comfortable._ Maybe the Northerners are less uptight than everyone thinks. This King Castiel seems to have gone out of his way to make his guests as _comfortable_ as possible during their stay. Or perhaps it is just good diplomacy, maybe Crowley has been harrying his border with Eden more than that with Wessex of late and they are more eager for the alliance than King John realized. Either way, it can only make things go smoother. So if Dean has to dress up in a long robe like an old priest or a maiden, well, so be it. His father is trusting him not to screw this up, and he’s already saluted the king like a horse lord in front of his entire court…

“Okay then,” he says and turns to survey the different bits of clothing laid out on the bed. “So… what am I wearing?”

Anael smiles excitedly. _“Well,_ Castiel put me in charge, so I took the liberty of having a few different things made up for you.  We had to guess a little as to the fit, but this sort of robe is meant to be worn loose, only fitted with the belt, so I think it will be fine.” She takes a breath. “Which color do you like?” she asks, indicating the mass of silk over the bed.

Dean looks them over. “Err…” There is a lot of silver embroidery, whites and icy blues, greens, pinks and purples. “Not pink?” he manages.

Anael says something to the woman beside her and in an instant the pink robes vanish off the bed. “The green would bring out your eyes,” she suggests.

Dean had been leaning that way more because it was the color closest to the sorts of clothes he usually wore. “Sure, green sounds good.” he agrees.

Anael claps her hands and bounces on the balls of her feet. “Oh this is so exciting!” she tells Dean, “Last time there was a _paracleda_ I was too young to help. All I remember is the food from the feasting and the tourney the next day.”

Dean’s not sure what this _paracleda_ everyone keeps talking about is, his Enochian doesn’t extend that far, but he assumes it some sort of welcoming feast or celebration thing. “Well, um, you’re being really helpful,” he tells her, hoping that’s the right thing to say. “I’ve never been to a… a _paracleda_ myself, so I’ve got no idea.”

She laughs lightly and keeps talking as two servants flank Dean and start pulling at his clothes, whispering to each other in a rapid fire tongue that Dean can’t understand a word of. He’s not used to being so manhandled, in Wessex servants help with only the trickery bits of dressing, or with cumbersome armor, but he restrains his discomfort and lets them guide him in removing the tunic and undershirt.

“I’m so glad you are so agreeable to this Dean,” Anael says. Behind her Benny and Garth are smirking and sending Dean teasing looks as the maids prod at him. “When my brother spoke of a treaty with King John, I must admit I feared he did not know what he had gotten into, forming an alliance with the House of Wessex.” She shoots him a sly look under her lashes. “There are many tales about your kin, some of them quite salacious.”

Dean snorts, forgetting for a moment that he is talking to an Edenish Princess and should act more refined.

“But you do not _look_ like a Saxon barbarian,” Anael continues. “I half expected you to arrive in boiled leather with braids in your beard.”

“Ahhh…” Dean hadn’t ever bothered growing out his beard, but wearing one with braids was actually quite popular amongst the men of Wessex. He’s excused from making an appropriate response by the old servant woman at his back grabbing at his leggings and shoving her cold bony hand down the back of them in the process, right against Dean’s bare ass. He yelps and jerks away from her. She frowns and yammers away indecipherably. Anael snips back at her in the same tongue.

“That doesn’t sound like Enochian,” Dean says, holding his leggings and eyeing the old servant warily. He doesn’t need to look to know Benny and Garth are laughing at him. “Can you tell your maid I can manage my own undergarments? And that she has _really_ cold hands?”

Anael giggles and says something to the servant, who purses her lips and mutters something under her breath. “It’s latin. The lower tongue of Eden,” she tells Dean. “Many of the peasants and servants don’t speak fluent Enochian.”

That seems like a shitty arrangement as far as Dean is concerned, but he refrains from commenting. Instead he snatches the weird shift thing the servant is holding out to him and holds it up to figure out how to put it on. It’s some sort of thin tunic, very long though. Dean assumes it’s what passes as an undershirt when wearing an Edenish robe. “Nothing underneath?” he asks, amused a little at the thought that all those stuffy Edenish nobles he saw earlier might have been naked under their robes and dresses.

“Not with these robes no,” Anael tells him.

She doesn’t appear to be leaving, and Dean doesn’t want to commit some faux pas by asking her to, so he just turns around and steps out his trousers. He’s not been naked in front of any princesses before, but plenty of servants, and privacy at camp was limited at best. He ignores their presence and pulls the shift over his head. It’s linen so fine as to be nearly transparent and he still feels more or less naked when he turns back around.

The grumpy old servant steps forward and tugs at the shoulders and the waist, checking the fit and adjusting how it sits. She appears satisfied however since she chitters at a boy near the bed and he brings over the pile of green silk.

“You are very handsome,” Princess Anael tells him, blushing slightly. Over her shoulder Benny is making kissing gestures and Garth’s face is bright red as he shakes with silent laughter.  Dean turns a little aside so he can scowl at them without Anael seeing.

“Um. Thank you,” he tells her, trying to ignore his immature guards.

The robe isn’t so bad. It is more like a very long tunic than a dress and there is no lace at least. The silver thread stitched into it for decoration is in those repetitive geometric designs the Edenish seem to favor. If it were a better color, deeper green or dark red perhaps, Dean would not be entirely uncomfortable wearing it. It's also surprisingly comfortable.

Anael nods approvingly after the belt has been secured around his waist and then gestures at one of the hovering servants, directing her in rapid-fire latin. The servant bobs a curtsey and disappears from the room along with another maid. The other servants file out after them. Dean supposes he must be dressed then, although, “No shoes?” he asks Anael, wiggling his toes into the thick carpet.

She shakes her head. “It is traditional to be bare foot.” she says. “The hall and chapel are carpeted though, so hopefully you will not be too cold.”

The two servants Anael sent away return, a long heavy looking robe or cloak carried reverently between them. Anael waves them closer. “This is the _oboleh,_ ” she tells Dean.

Dean nods dumbly. It looks long and cumbersome and annoying. He hopes he doesn’t have to wear it all night. The servants carefully help him into it, and it turns out that it’s a long sort of cloak thing that sits on his shoulders. It has huge ridiculous sleeves and trails out behind him. It _is_ heavy, but Dean is used to wearing mail so it’s not so bad. It’s reminiscent of the golden King’s Cloak the kings of Wessex wear when they are crowned in Winchester, except the heavy cloth is woven from silver thread instead of gold. And there appear to be gems stitched into it as well. They glimmer and catch the light.

“Are you sure I’m meant to wear this?” he asks Anael dubiously.

The Princess frowns. “Well of course. It’s _your_ oboleh. The king had it made.”

Dean’s eyes widen in shock. “He had this made just for me?” he asks in soft shock. It must have taken weeks, perhaps months of work. And the cost…

“Naturally,” Anael tells him. “It would be a grave insult to present you with another’s oboleh for you to wear to your paracleda.” She frowns. “I cannot imagine it is so different from what you would wear in Wessex. Do you not all favor cloth-of-gold for such occasions? This is merely silver.”

“Well, yes,” Dean says. “I suppose you are right.” There _is_ a lot of cloth-of-gold worn around court. Not as extravagantly as this strange _oboleh,_ but perhaps the Edenish just wish to impress them. This could be King Castiel’s version of King John’s trick with the purses of gold.

“Now!” Anael says. “You are almost ready.” She looks around at the chests and wardrobe. “I thought you might prefer to wear your own circlet? Though there are several available for your use if you prefer silver.”

Dean can imagine what an Edenish circlet would look like - an ostentatious sparkly diadem like a particularly vain queen might wear. “I’ll wear my own, thank you.”

Benny, who has retreated to the corner and is picking at the remains of the repast left earlier, interrupts. “Oh!” he says. “The King sent over some extra things when you were sleeping Prince Dean.”

He points to a wooden box Dean doesn’t recognize sitting on one of the large clothing chests. Dean wanders over, oboleh dragging heavily behind him, and flicks the top open curiously. He blinks in surprise at all the _gold_ that greets him when he does. Apparently King Castiel isn’t the only one trying to show off. The box contains gold jewels in just about every variety there is, evidentially so Dean can literally drape himself in them.

Benny leans over his shoulder and looks in, letting out a low whistle. “Not sure you’re gonna be able to walk under all that,” he mutters softly in amusement so only Dean can hear. “Looks like the kings are playing dress up with you to impress each other.”

Anael appears at his elbow and audibly gasps when she sees all the gold. “Oh may I?” she asks rapturously, reaching towards the small chest.

Dean pushes it in her direction. She pulls out a golden cuff etched in sinuous saxon designs - horses with emeralds for eyes - reverently. “Oh your southern goldwork is so lovely,” she gushes, tracing the mane of one of the horses.

There is a new circlet in the box to Dean’s surprise, one he doesn’t recognize and that is as heavy with jewels and as elaborate as one his father might wear. His name and rank is etched along it in runes - _Dæn Æðeling Westseaxna Rīce._ Again Dean is amazed at how much effort his father and Castiel appear to be putting into showing off to one another. The waste of it. He wonders if Anael’s jewels are new. Dean suspects so. The circlet on her brow glitters brightly with carefully cut diamonds and more glint on her rings and necklaces. The dress she is wearing is also very fine and her red hair is threaded with pearls. 

As Anael sighs wistfully, Dean starts putting on his father’s gold - the thick twisted torc with two fat rubies on either end, the rings and the cuffs - but he leaves the circlet for now, knowing it will be heavy and uncomfortable just from looking at it. “Should I wear the pins?” he asks dubiously, not wishing to offend and thinking they might damage the clothing he has been given.

Anael nods vigorously. “Oh you must!” she gushes, picking up a delicately formed broach in the shape of a raven. “They are _so_ lovely.”

Dean looks at the remaining pins, buckles and broaches in the case. He doesn’t think trying to wear them all is a particularly wise idea. He lets Anael direct him on where to pin what, but stops her before she has emptied the cache. “I think that is enough,” he tells her.

Anael bites at her lip and sighs. “I suppose you are right, it still seems like a shame you cannot wear them all…”

Dean reaches in and pulls out the largest and finest broach of those remaining – a golden oak leaf set with emeralds – and hold it out to her. “Perhaps you would have this?” he asks. “I think it would suit you very well.”

Anael’s eyes widen and she takes the piece from Dean’s hand carefully. “Oh!” she gasps. “Oh it’s _beautiful.”_

She eagerly pins it to the fitted robe worn over her dress. It contrasts well against her red hair and Dean tells her so. She blushes.

Christian and the remainder of Dean’s guard arrive shortly after to escort them to the feast or the paracleda or whatever it is that is happening. His cousin sniggers and smirks and Dean sighs, feeling completely ridiculous. Anael hums with excitement and her childlike enthusiasm goes a long way towards calming Dean’s nerves despite how absurd he feels dressed up in King Castiel’s robes and King John’s gold. His rídend have polished their mail and wear new tunics and cloaks in deep red. Dean looks at them jealously, wishing he were dressed alike rather than swimming in silk with gold heavy on his brow.

Christian is wearing gold at his neck and wrists too, and Dean wonders if his father is responsible for that also. His cousin is not an aetheling, but he is a thegn and a Campbell - kin to the late queen – and John might wish to play that up given how extravagant this trip has proven. Christian mouths something no doubt insulting at Dean but in the presence of the other rídend and Princess Anael, is forced to keep his forked tongue to himself for a change.

The odoleh proves incredibly annoying. Benny manages to trod on it _twice_ and it catches on corners and steps. In the end two of his guards end up carrying the train like handmaidens until they reach the hall were the first part of the Edenish paracleda is being held. Anael halts him in the antechamber and she and one of her ladies push at his hair and tug at his clothes for a minute. “You enter when your father calls for you,” she tells him. “Walk down the aisle and take your place beside him. The ceremony will be in Enochian and West Saxon, so just follow the Bishop’s instructions.”

She takes a big breath and smiles at him. “I probably won’t see you until the evening feast tomorrow, so…” She places slender hands on his shoulder and reaches up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. When she speaks again it is in lilting, very formal Enochian. _“Welcome Dean, lord’s blessings upon thee.”_  

Dean blinks down at her in shock, surprised at her unexpected friendliness and this entire day so far, and murmurs back the correct response automatically, glad he knows it.  _“His blessings upon thee also Anael.”_

One last bright smile and then Anael and her ladies straighten their shoulders and make their way out into the hall.

Benny shoots Dean a quizzical look. “They sure a weird bunch,” he mutters where only Dean can hear. “Though that princess is quite the looker. That hair.” He leers.

Dean gives him a look. “Do _not_ attempt to despoil the King’s sister Benny.” he warns, only half joking.

His guard just smirks.

Several long _boring_ minutes pass. From within the chapel there is Enochian singing and chanting and Dean wonders vaguely how long this paracleda thing will last. He’s hungry and looking forward to ditching the odoleh.

Finally, he hears a bell ring and everything falls silent. His father’s voice echoes out from within in Enochian. _“I offer my son, Prince Dean of Wessex.”_ Or at least that’s what Dean _thinks_ he says. At any rate, he definitely hears ‘Dean’ so taking his cue he plasters on a suitably dignified facial expression and heads out into the hall, mindful of the drag of the stupid long odoleh behind him.

It is reminiscent of their arrival that morning. The hall is long and narrow with a roof soaring high above, buttressed in the strange Northern style, and the three stories of galleries that line it are packed with Edenish courtiers in all their finery. Everywhere bright silk and jewels glimmer, though apart from the bright flash of Anael’s new broach, the only gold in the room in on the West Saxons. King John stands with King Castiel, resplendent in a long tunic of cloth-of-gold and some of his finest jewels. He meets Dean’s eye as he approaches and gives him a stern ‘don’t ruin this’ look.

Dean can’t nod, but he attempts to communicate his acquiescence with a look.

Beside his father is the Endenish King. He is also looking at back down the aisle at Dean. He’s wearing a black Edenish robe, fitted and falling past his knees, a glittering crown, and an odoleh. Abruptly Dean notes that his father is not wearing one. Nor is he dressed in Northern garb. An odd sense of panic swells in him as he puts together the strange events that have led him here and comes to a terrifying, shocking, conclusion. In a daze he comes a halt beside his father as Anael instructed. The princess flashes him a small smile from her place behind her brother.

King John takes Dean’s right hand and Dean watches with a detached sense of horror and disbelief as it is placed in King Castiel’s. “ _I accept Prince Dean of Wessex,”_ the Edenish King says.

King John nods and steps back and suddenly Dean finds himself standing in front of the entire Edenish court, apparently at his own wedding.

He can't breathe all of a sudden. His heart feels like it is trying to beat itself out of his chest.

At his side the Northern King is sedate and calm, his attention upon the holy man in elaborate robes before them. His hand where he holds Dean’s is warm and soft. There is some talking in Enochian, a little in West Saxon, and then a silken cord is being carefully tied around their joined hands. The holy man chants a blessing which is echoed by the assembled court, and then Dean is being led from the chapel by his new husband. He passes his rídend on the way and notes Garth and Victor’s expressions of shock with something almost like relief.

 _At least they did not know either_ he thinks.

As if in a dream, or a trance, Dean lets himself be guided along the unfamiliar halls of the Palace and back to his own bedchamber. People are talking and the King says something to someone but Dean can’t follow it. At some point the odoleh is eased off his shoulders and the door to the bedchamber is closed. It is not cold – someone has banked the fire - but he is shivering.

The Edenish king takes the small jeweled dagger from his waist and cuts Dean’s clothing from his body with precise, careful motions. Chill air against his skin wakes him from his stupor somewhat, and he glances around and finds himself alone save Christian, Benny, Princess Raphael and another Northerner he does not recognize. And Castiel.

“Prince Dean?” the man he is tied to prompts, holding out the dagger hilt first for him.

Dean takes it and for one insane moment, imagines stabbing the king with it – burying it right in his heart - or cutting the cord at his wrist and running. But he remembers that look his father gave him in the hall, and thinks on the importance of an alliance with Eden, of stopping the raids from Perdition once and for all, and steels his nerves. He is angry, but it is not that his father has arranged a marriage for him, it is that he was given no warning, no time to adjust himself to the idea of it.

Did his father think he would run? Do something stupid to jeopardize the treaty? He is not so selfish. With hands that are not shaking, he removes the King’s belt and then cuts his robes along his shoulders – from his neck to his wrist, so they simply fall to the ground.  And then he is as naked as Dean.

The king gestures towards the bed and Dean lies down as directed, staring up at the ceiling. A hand at his hip pulls and shifts him until he rolls over onto his stomach. The room has been tidied and the heavy drapes around the bed have been tied back. Most likely so they do obscure the view. Naked and exposed, Dean finds his resolve slipping somewhat. It is customary for the consummation of a royal marriage to be witnessed, but he had thought he would have time to prepare himself for such an occasion, to seek advice from those experienced in such matters. His father. His uncle. Other lords at court.

As it is he has no idea what is expected of him. He supposes the King, being a widower and a decade Dean’s senior, will be able to guide him. Dean does not know him, but he seems decent enough. Certainly not the sort of husband anyone would reject or run from. No Sir Zachariah. It is not as if Dean would have refused him if his father had made this his choice after all.

 _Yes_ he tells himself, _this isn’t so bad._

It is just... a shock.

“On your knees.” the king directs in accented West Saxon, and the abruptness of it is cutting, but Dean complies, horribly conscious of his nudity, of his dick hanging soft and limp between his legs.

He hears the shuffling of mail and armor and closes his eyes in mortification at the thought that _Christian_ of all people is present for this. He would have preferred his own father.

Focusing on keeping his breathing even, he tries to will that thought away, telling himself that it is _Benny’s_ armor he hears shifting, not Christian’s. That is almost a comfort. Benny has lived and fought at his side for years. Benny he trusts with his life. Humiliating as it is to be seen like this, nothing terrible can happen with his friend standing guard nearby. And this is just sex. People do it all the time. There is movement behind him, the mattress dipping and he smells something pungent and herbal, and then his backside is spread open and his opening is anointed with what feels like oil. It is cold and slippery and the touch there is strange and shocking. He manages not to flinch, just barely, but he can feel his traitorous body shaking minutely, like a spooked horse, and cannot still it.

Dean is not an innocent - he is aware of the mechanics of lovemaking in its basic forms, and so far this all seems to match what he has heard and _overheard_ on campaign. That should reassure him but it does not. He feels strangely detached from himself, as if he is watching all this happen from far away. To someone else. A hand curls around the flare of his hip bone and there is a wet noise – the king slicking himself – and then he is spread open again and there is the touch of something hot and blunt against him. _His dick,_ Dean thinks wildly. _That is his dick touching me._ He cannot remember ever being so terrified. He does not pull away or make a sound though, no matter how he wants to. He twists the fingers of his free hand in the bedding and clenches his jaw instead.

 _You fret over nothing,_ he tells himself. _Men do this all the time._

The treaty is important. The marriage his father has given him to must be consummated and so he must let this king – his _husband_ \- have him. Fuck him. Put his dick inside him. Dean focuses on breathing steadily and remaining silent and still.

It quickly becomes very difficult however. The king grips his hips with both hands as he bears down against him and Dean’s corded arm is pulled awkwardly behind his back. For a moment there is only dull, strange, pressure, but then his body gives a little and that pressure becomes sharp, burning pain.

Dean’s breath catches and he tenses. It takes all his willpower not to pull away or cry out. The king’s grip on his hips increases and for a time all there is is seemingly endless agony as he pushes and _pushes_ until finally something _gives_ in an awful burn and the king is inside him. Dean cannot help it, he gulps and gasps, feeling as if he is being torn apart. For a moment the king is still but then he is pushing again and Dean realizes dimly there is _more._ His body surrenders in a raw grudging slide and then Castiel’s hips are flush against him.

Dean blinks back tears at the burning agony having him buried inside provokes. His thighs shake with the strain of staying still. He feels torn, stretched tight, split in half. Like he is dying, being impaled with a spear, wounded terribly. He manages to hold in all noises, but everything he feels seems magnified in the silence of the room. When Castiel pulls out and repeats the entire agonizing process, he cannot help the low groan that escapes him.

Dean waits, still and stiff, for the pain to lessen. That is what he has heard, that at first it is painful for both men and women, but that pain soon turns to pleasure. He had not expected quite so much pain, but he has borne worse. He remembers the burn and dull sickening ache of the arrow he caught in the thigh when he was 16. In comparison this is far less. He had not screamed when the healer pulled the arrow's barb from him then, he will certainly not shame himself by doing so now.

The pain does not lessen though, and there is certainly no pleasure.

Behind him the king works in and out of his body, each drag tight and awful, like a raw wound being rasped with a file. At some point his way is slicked by something more than oil, _blood_ Dean thinks vaguely as he smells the metallic tang of it, and it becomes a little easier, but that is all. It seems to go on forever, but eventually the king’s breathing grows harsh and labored and his movements rougher. Dean buries his face in the bedding beneath him so he will not shame himself by crying out. Then the king groans and Dean feels the hot bar impaled within him twitch and thicken and the next few thrusts are eased by some new warmth before blessedly, it stops. For a minute the king remains inside Dean, but then he pulls away and is gone, leaving Dean split open and aching, something warm trickling down his thighs.

“I am satisfied,” Princess Raphael says coolly. “The marriage is consummated.”

“As I am,” agrees Christian, sounding amused. “My cousin is well-bedded indeed.”

Dean does not look up. He keeps his face buried in the mattress and tries to master the way his body is shaking and the awful burn and throb between his legs. He feels broken and _wrong_ there, wet with Castiel’s seed and blood and gods know what else and he wants desperately to go wash himself.

Dean is yanked roughly to one side as Castiel moves to his feet, his arm tugged upwards where they are still tied together. The king looks down at the cord in surprise, and then leans over. Dean finds himself flinching away before he can stop himself. Castiel doesn’t seem to notice, he just takes the same dagger as before and neatly snips the cord that joins their hands. He meets Dean’s eyes briefly. “I will leave you to your rest husband,” he says. “I must return to the feast.”

Dean nods dumbly.

A servant appears and offers the king a robe and then he, Princess Raphael and the other Northerner leave the room. From behind Benny, Christian grins at Dean. “Thanks for the show _your highness_ , watching you get buggered bloody is a memory I’ll treasure.”

Benny glares at him. _“Shut your fucking mouth Campbell.”_ he all but growls, a hand on his blade, eager to draw. “And get out.”

Christian leaves with a grin on his face and a spring in his step.

Dean pulls at the blankets and covers himself awkwardly, ignoring the vile wet slip between his thighs. When he looks up Benny is ashen and agitated. “Did you know…?” Dean asks, not sure what he will do if his friend says _yes._

“That you were being gift wrapped for that priggish Northern ass?!” Benny exclaims. “No! No one did!”

“Christian did,” Dean tells him. “He’s been mocking me about it and I did not even realize.”

Benny inhales slowly. And passes Dean a sleeping shirt.

Sitting up is agony renewed. Pain flares bright and jarring, but Dean ignores it and pulls the cloth over his head.

“Are you okay?” Benny asks in embarrassed concern. “You bled. Quite a lot. More than a girl.”

Dean doesn’t know how to reply to that so he doesn’t. Instead he gets to his feet, except his legs turn to jelly and a mess runs down his thighs and Benny has to step forward and catch him. Dean wants to cry. Which is ridiculous. People get married all the time and no one _cries_ over it. Steadying himself, he nods towards the garderobe. “I want to clean up,” he manages, sounding only slightly hoarse.

Benny nods and helps him towards the small chamber, then shuts the door giving Dean privacy.

Worse perhaps than the pain is the feeling that he is going to soil himself. Dean uses the privy but it _burns_ when he strains and all he passes seems to be blood and the king’s seed. It stings like vinegar in a cut. Alone he cannot stop the water in his eyes and he spends he is not sure how long sitting on the privy sobbing wretchedly like a stupid child. When he is finally able to calm himself, he crosses unsteadily to the washstand and pours cool water into the ewer to clean himself. There is a single lamp burning in a niche above it. In its feeble light, yes, there does seem to be a lot of blood, the water quickly turns pink and cloudy with it.

When he emerges Benny is sitting at the table frowning fiercely. Mercifully he makes no mention of Dean’s crying if he heard it. “It’s not supposed to be like that,” he says, like he has been practicing while Dean was occupied in the garderobe. “I’ve never had a boy that way, but the men at camp, well…” He shrugs. “They _enjoy_ laying with each other. You know that.”

Dean nods.

“They say that it hurts a boy more than a girl the first time so I’m sure it will get better,” Benny continues, and the words _are_ actually comforting. A little. “But if the King is too rough on you, be sure and tell him so when next be comes to your chamber.” He frowns at Dean. “You’re a Prince and his consort, not some bed-warmer he can do with as he pleases. Remember that.”

“I’m sure it will be… different next time,” Dean says. He can’t imagine ever _enjoying_ it as some men are said to, but surely it will not be so painful? He bites at his lip. “Could you… could you tell?” he asks in embarrassment. He’s thought he’d hidden his pain well, but Benny seems to have seen right through him.

“You barely made a peep,” Benny says. “But I’ve seen you get sewn up and have bones set, I know the face you make when something hurts.” He pauses. “I think that prick of a Campbell could tell, but the Northerners? I doubt it.”

That, at least, is reassuring. The thought of the king being dissatisfied with him and going back on the treaty is unbearable.

Benny huffs and pulls himself to his feet. “There’s strongwine here,” he says. “Might help you sleep. I’ll be at the door if you need anything.”

Through his window he can hear the sounds of music and laughter from the feast below. It occurs to him finally that he will remain here when his father returns home, that he may well never see Wessex or Sam or his uncle ever again.

Dean drains the entire jug of strongwine before sleep takes him. It dulls the ache of his body only a little.


	3. Chapter 3

His head aches and his body throbs in low pain when he wakes. The light spilling through the windows is bright and Dean thinks it must be mid-morning at least. Benny has been relieved and two fresh guards are at the door to his chambers. It is Victor who knocks and announces that the King is without.  He smiles and winks teasingly as he backs away, clearly in the dark as to the truth of how Dean’s wedding night played out. He knows he should take comfort Victor’s ignorance since it means no rumors are being spread, but he is too overwhelmed with anxiety at being left alone again with his… _husband_ to think on it rationally.

He struggles to sit up so he can at least receive him with a modicum of dignity. Aches flare up in humiliating places in protest as he forces his sore body into position against the pillows. Dean grits his teeth and ignores them, schooling his face into something if not welcoming, then at least… polite.

The King is wearing another dark robe with silver threadwork. Dean stares at it intently. Not because it is finely made and fits him handsomely, but because he cannot quite bring himself to meet his eyes. “I trust you slept well?” he asks, his West Saxon just slightly off.

Dean nods. “Yes thank you.” When he glances up the king is looking around the room in interest. Dean tries to remember his manners. “My chambers are very fine. Thank you for taking such effort in preparing them.”

The king perks up a little. “I wish you to be comfortable,” he says, and Dean is getting heartedly sick of hearing about his ‘comfort’.

“That is very thoughtful of you your majesty,” Dean says, trying to subtly adjust the way he is sitting so he is not in quite so much pain.  Even the soft mattress seems too hard.

“You may call me Castiel,” the king- _Castiel –_ tells him.

Dean nods but does not say anything.

“I am twenty-nine this coming harvest,” Castiel continues, the words stilted and practiced. “My wife and I were wed less than a year ere she died and in the intervening years I have been kept busy on the borders pushing back raiders from Perdition. I have no heir save my sister and this has been a source of increasing disquiet at court, owing to the history of… _difficult_ successions in my family.”

Dean can see where this is going. He swallows.

“Tradition dictates I lie with you every night for the duration of the paracleda festivities. If you are not with child at the end of that period I intend to continue to in that manner until you are.” He tilts his head, attention focused in on Dean in a way that makes him want to fidget. “Is this acceptable to you?”

The blood drains from Dean’s face. He had thought – _hoped -_ that he might be given a few days… but no, even in Wessex the couple are usually locked up for a ten-day and expected to do much as Castiel has implied the Edenish do. He swallows. Obviously Castiel has taken a consort because he requires an heir, to deny him that might be enough to sour relations between Wessex and Eden. With their marriage witnessed and consummated, he would be unable to take another spouse even if Dean denied him. Christians do not divorce.

“I am agreeable,” Dean mumbles.

He nods and to Dean’s shock approaches and pulls at the bedclothes. Dean stares at him numbly as the blankets are pulled back and Castiel kneels at his side.  “ _Now?”_ he squawks in surprise, clutching at the sheets.

Castiel shrugs. “I am here and you are still abed,” he says as if that somehow explains everything.

Dean stares, shivering a little at the chill morning air in his nightshirt, desperately trying to think of some polite and reasonable excuse. Nothing comes to mind.

Castiel squeezes his shoulder and tugs. “Roll over.”

Dean swallows and does as told, shifting up onto his knees as Castiel’s hands pull at him, guiding him into the position he had taken him in the night before. This time he sees Castiel pick up the slim bottle of oil from the nearby stand and hears the slick noise of him coating himself in it. It is cool when Castiel daubs it upon him where he is hot and inflamed. And it stings.

“You have bled in the night,” Castiel says.

Dean cannot think how to reply to that, so he does not.

Castiel smears more oil between his cheeks. Dean bites at the inside of his mouth and tries not to shudder in revulsion at the strange wetness there.

“I did not expect to find an aetheling rídend still chaste. Or have you only lain with women?”

Dean flushes in shame. Both from his husband’s tone and his current position. “I had no wish to sire bastards,” he says quietly.

“That is admirable,” Castiel tells him, oddly earnest considering what he is doing, and then he is pushing Dean forward onto the bed and lining himself up.

If possible, it hurts _more_ than it did the night before. It is easier, his body parting for his husband with a little more give, but the bright agony of it makes Dean grit his teeth and huff through his nose.

For several minutes the room is silent save the ugly wet slapping noise of the King’s body cleaving into his and the harsh pant of Dean’s breath as he struggles to remain still and silent.

“You are bleeding again,” Castiel tells him, almost as if Dean is doing so intentionally.

He has to bite at his cheek again to hold back a sarcastic comment.

By the time Castiel finishes Dean’s backside feels as if it is on fire and when he is left empty, finally, something feels _wrong,_ as if he has been left broken and open. He tries to roll away on his side, but Castiel presses a hand into the small of his back, holding him down. Dean flinches and goes still. He cannot mean to do it _again_ can he?

“Lay still for a while; it will help you catch,” Castiel says.

Dean nods, relieved, and forces himself to ignore the stinging wet mess he feels between his legs, the heavy throb of his pulse there. The curtains around the bed are still tied back, but the air feels close and uncomfortable just the same, the smell of sweat, oil, blood and what Dean guesses must be sex hanging thick between them. It is vile.

“You will accompany me to the evening feast, but until then you may relax as you please,” Castiel says. Dean can hear him pulling his clothes back into order, but does not turn to check. “Tomorrow the wedding tourney begins, you may enjoy that. Have you seen knights tilt before?”

“No.”

“It is quite impressive. And then there will be the melee and archery, which you will be familiar with. You Saxons are quite formidable with sword and shield.”

Seeing an Edenish Tourney does actually sound enjoyable, but all Dean can think about right now is how much it _hurts_ where Castiel has fucked him and how he can apparently look forward to similar every night until he falls pregnant. And perhaps of a morning if his husband catches him abed.

“I think your cousin, Thegn Christian means to compete,” Castiel continues. “Your father mentioned that you are quite competent? It would be unusual, but if you wish to compete I would not be opposed. It is unlikely that you have caught already.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, he isn’t sure he’ll make it to the privy when Castiel leaves, let alone fight in a melee. “I think not,” he says.

“That is perhaps for the best,” Castiel agrees thoughtfully. “I will collect you for the feast at sundown.”

As instructed, Dean lays still for as long as he can stand before lurching to his feet and stumbling to the garderobe. His head throbs from the strongwine and for a moment he thinks he will loose his stomach as well as his bowels, but the feeling passes. The same discomfort remains as did the previous evening, a steady aching throb, except this time Dean is expected to attend a feast and be merry all night as opposed to sleep.

He washes twice before he dresses and still does not feel clean. There are soft bruises at his hips. Purple fingermarks. They are nothing, little smudges barely tender - but the sight of them makes his stomach turn. He’s glad when they are hidden under layers of linen. He chooses one of the new Northern tunics his father had made for him and tops it with the thickest fur cloak, hoping it will provide further cushioning as he sits through the feasting.  He is uncertain of the formality of the event, so he dons a few of the gold pieces again, cuffs, torc and pin, but instead of the large circlet, wears the plainer one he is accustomed to.

Castiel arrives as promised, at sundown.

“You look very well,” he tells Dean.

Dean thanks him and returns the compliment emptily, trying to keep his face clear despite the fact that every step he takes ignites a sharp pain from between his legs. His two rídend fall into step with the King’s guards and they make their way downstairs and across the palace to what Dean assumes is the high hall. The corridors and rooms they pass through are thronged with milling courtiers and there is much elaborate bowing and curtseying as they pass. Dean attempts to smile and return such greetings and congratulations that he receives politely, but he struggles. Castiel guides him by the arm as if he were a woman. His sleeve is soft beneath Dean’s fingers. Velvet.

The feast seems well underway when they arrive. The packed hall erupts into cheers when they enter and there are many red faces amongst the crowd already.

At the high table Dean is seated on Castiel’s right with Princess Raphael beside him. His father is on the left with Princess Anael. Christian is the only other West Saxon at the high table. Their thegn and retainers are seated lower. Benny raises his drink to Dean when he catches his eye and Dean tries to smile back at him, glad at least one person appreciates how difficult this actually is for him. His father certainly doesn’t appear to. He barely looks at him.

It is not so different from a feast back home. Music plays from the galleries, light hearted stuff with occasional bursts of singing. Food is brought out in courses, elaborately dressed, and Castiel offers him the first portion of each. Dean accepts several cuts of different meats simply to be polite. He doesn’t dare eat more than a few bites because of how torn and sore his guts feel. He is uncertain if he were to fill his stomach that he would not soil himself, and the thought of that humiliation is far stronger than hunger.

Castiel spends most of the evening speaking to King John, and from the snatches Dean overhears it is talk of strategy and rumors of the movements of Crowley’s troops. Several times Dean wishes to interject with some useful piece of information, but he does not, and neither seek his input. Beyond discussion of the dishes, Castiel does not speak to him. Princess Raphael exchanges a few remarks with him, but Dean finds it near impossible to speak to her owing to the fact that she bore witness to the consummation of his marriage the night before. He can barely meet her eye, let alone hold intelligent conversation.

The other witness, a man he is later informed is a cousin of the King’s named Samandriel, is seated past Anael and Dean is grateful that he is too far away to exchange words with.

The feast drags on and on, and Dean sips at his wine and moves his food around on his plate. His body is a dull throb of pain and he wishes desperately to simply go to bed. Except the bed he is thinking of is the one in his room at Singer’s Hold, not the huge carven thing upstairs. At last the final sweet course is cleared and some of the crowd remain to drink and others drift off to the adjoining dancing hall where a fresh band is playing reels.

To Dean’s immense relief Castiel makes no mention of any tradition involving dancing. “I am quite tired your majesty,” Dean tells him. “I would like to retire now.”

The king nods distractedly. “Very well,” he agrees and turns back to Dean’s father and their discussion about which passes thaw first in the spring and which is best suited for moving troops on foot verses horseback.

As Dean stands his father meets his eye for a second over the King’s shoulder before looking away.

He makes his way back towards his chambers slowly. Without Castiel setting the pace he lets himself wander almost listlessly. His head is already fuzzy from the wine at dinner, so he resists the urge to drink more strongwine, and instead falls directly into bed after washing his face and scrubbing his teeth. He notes vaguely that the bloody bed linens have been changed and he is pleased. Thankfully, Castiel does not awaken him to make demands upon his person and he sleeps straight on until morning.

His stomach gurgles, but Dean eats only some strange Northern fruit for his breakfast. It is bitter and sharp on the back of his tongue. The tea he is served is odd – dark and smoky with a twinge of spice he doesn’t recognize, but with a generous dollop of honey it’s bearable.

He half expects Castiel to appear and fuck him again, but thankfully it is Princess Anael who appears at his door come midmorning.

“The lists are posted!” she says by way of introduction. “Most of the Court have been down at the fields all morning, but the jousting will not begin for a little while yet.”

Dimly Dean recalls Castiel’s talk of a tourney. He remains curious at the thought of watching Northern knights attempting to knock one another off their horses with big sticks, but he is just as sore this morning as he was yesterday.

“Since the tourney is in _your_ honor, you must dress very grandly,” Anael tells him, pulling at his chests and peering through his wardrobe. “Be sure and wear as much of your gold as you can, that will impress the common folk.”

Dean walks stiffly to one of the chests and pulls out a tunic of Wessex cloth-of-gold and holds it up for Anael to see, raising an eyebrow.

Her eyes widen and she gasps. “Oh _yes._ You _must_ wear that!” She darts forward and pulls at the tunic, running her hands over it reverently. “Forget the peasants, half the court will be in awe! Sir Zachariah will turn green in envy.” She sounds thrilled at the prospect. It seems Dean’s not the only one who doesn’t like the man. “Your father is the only person I’ve _ever_ seen wear clothing such as this,” she continues. “And he is not nearly so handsome as you. All of Eden will be jealous of Castiel’s golden consort and shall ride south to try and find one of their own.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Okay, I’ll wear it.” In truth, even though the tunic is flashy, it is cut in the Southern style and far more appealing than the flimsy Edenish silks Dean otherwise has to choose from. “And the jewels I wore on…” Dean pauses, tongue-tied for a moment, “For... for my wedding?” he manages.

“Yes all those!” Anael enthuses. Dean notices that she is wearing the golden broach he gave her. She sees him look and touches it fondly. “Aunt Raphael offered me her 800 silver crowns for it,” she tells him rather smugly.

Dean crooks his head. “That isn’t a bad price,” he muses.

Anael’s eyes goggle. “In _Winchester_ perhaps! Here the thinnest golden ring is worth 100 crowns! And this is far lovelier than any goldwork I have ever seen, even grandmother’s jewels in the vault. _And,”_ she stresses, “It was a gift to me from my good-brother on his wedding day.” She flicks at her hair. “It has sentimental value.”

Dean smiles at her. “You’ve known me _two days,_ ” he reminds her in amusement.

“Yes,” Anael agrees. “And I shall know you many years longer. We will live together here in the palace and when I marry our children will grow up together.”

Dean shakes his head, but her childlike enthusiasm makes him smile. “What if you marry some foreign Prince and move far away?”

Anael scoffs. “Who would I marry? One of Crowley’s bastards? No thank you.”

“I’ve got a brother,” Dean remarks lightly.

Anael stills. “Oh yes, Prince Samuel isn’t it? A younger brother? Your father has spoken of him. I remember now.”

Dean nods. “Maybe you’ll marry him and move to Winchester and get so sick of gold you’ll give that broach to your aunt for a few copper bits.”

“I would not mind that so much if he is half as handsome and kind as you Prince Dean,” Anael gushes. “And you could come visit with Castiel in the winter when it gets too cold here.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” Dean says. “For all I know my father’s already planned to marry Sam off to someone else.” He’s only half-joking.

“Who could _possibly_ be better than a Princess of Eden and your own dear good-sister?” Anael demands.

Dean pretends to think. “Hmm… I’m not sure… I hear some of Crowley’s sisters are quite lovely. Meg isn’t it? I hear when she’s not flogging her slaves she’s quite the beauty.”

 _“Meg?!”_ Anael gasps in disgust. “She’s _old!_ And _depraved!”_

“Maybe you’re right,” Dean agrees. “But there’s Ruby, the Pirate king’s daughter. She’s rich and beautiful.”

“She’s a _sea harpy!_ ”

“Okay so perhaps you have a chance,” Dean concedes. “But Sam is only 14, so you’ll have to wait on him.”

“Yes,” she says thoughtfully. “You Saxons don’t marry until you’ve come of age do you? That’s why we had to wait on the alliance. Castiel wanted to marry you last year, but your father would not hear of it.”

Dean feels queasy. “That long?” he asks. His father had been planning this for over a _year_ and had not told him?

“Oh yes, of course I was sworn to secrecy about the whole thing, but it hardly matters now.”

The sound of a bell toiling reaches them through the open windows and Anael gasps. “We must hurry! I didn’t realize it was so late! They’ll be waiting on us.”

She helps Dean pull on the golden tunic and locate suitable trousers and boots, and then they hurriedly drape him in all his gold. It is Benny and Victor on his door when they leave a few minutes later, and with Anael on his arm and his favorite rídend at his back, Dean feels more relaxed than he has since walking into the chapel two days previously. Studiously he ignores the sharp pain each step he takes sends twisting up his body, and focuses on the prospect of watching a melee, always enjoyable, and seeing first-hand what a joust is like. The pain will fade once he gets used to laying with the king, he just needs to ignore it until then, like any injury.

The jousting ground is a long narrow track of stamped earth. At one end is a pale stone gallery in which Castiel, Dean’s father and other high ranking members of the court already sit. Wooden stands line the other sides packed with a mix of courtiers, rich merchants and peasants. There is some division between the groups, but the commoners are all in colorful embroidered robes and dresses – their best - and Dean is impressed. The lower folk that turn out to watch the Winter Melee in Winchester or the smaller melees across Wessex were a much rougher lot.

People call out to them as they make their way to the stand. Princess Anael receives no less than three offers of marriage while Dean gets congratulations and few ribald comments about the King, his prowess in the wedding bed and something he doesn’t quite catch but that makes the Princess blush crimson. Castiel stands when they arrive and greets first Dean and then his sister politely. Anael waves some lord or lady aside and sits to Dean’s left, for which he is grateful. Excitable as she is, she is the only one present who might actually offer any real sort of diversion if the jousting proves boring.

Sir Zachariah and his sad-faced husband Inais are sat directly behind, along with a few others Dean vaguely recognizes, but many seem to be missing. Dean wonders if they intend to compete. He assumes that is why Christian is not around to throw his smirks and barbs. Benny and Victor settle into the space between the stand and the fence that surrounds the jousting ground, their heads level with Dean’s boots. There is some quiet murmuring between them and the Edenish guards present and Dean suspects that wagers are being passed between them. Benny has mentioned that their gold sceattas go a long way against silver crowns.

“First is the joust,” Castiel tells him, and Dean is, frankly, surprised at the attempt at conversation. “The first rounds are held today and the final tomorrow. Then will be the melee and finally the archery.”

“How many ride in the joust?” Dean asks, more out of politeness than real interest.

“There are some 60 in the lists I believe.”

“And do many of your kin ride?”

Castiel nods. “My aunt and several of my cousins.”

For a few minutes Dean focuses upon the discussion, nearly forgetting how uncomfortable he is on his seat, despite the cushion beneath him. “And have you placed a wager upon a winner?”

“It is not seemly for a King to play favorites,” Castiel says, before continuing in a lower voice. “But if I were to name a winner… I would say my aunt Raphael or Sir Balthazar. Both have a strong lance.”

Princess Raphael Dean of course remembers, but Balthazar he does not. “Is Sir Balthazar your kin?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, but he is one of the finest knights in the kingdom, on the field at least. Off the field is another matter entirely.”

His wry tone reminds Dean of Lord Singer discussing some of the rídend prone to drink and exotic bed companions, and he smiles. “Oh he’s one of those, is he?”

Castiel hums in good natured agreement.

A horn blast signifies the start of the tourney and the knights ride out in their elaborate armor to parade around the grounds, heralds walking among them holding up painted coats of arms. As each passes the King they salute. Dean has now seen a fair few Edenish knights, and he has heard the tales, but he is still unprepared for how preposterous some of them look. Many wear helms and armor formed to resemble the creatures on their coat of arms, and as a result there are several birds, some sort of weasel creature and a badger counted amidst the more noble lions, wolves, wyvern and leopards. And of course their horses wear as much plate as them, all covered in bright silken barding complete with bows and tassels.

Four of the knights bear the arms of Castiel’s House – a crowned eagle - but thankfully none of them have helms shaped like birds or anything stupid. Princess Raphael wears beautiful armor of enameled green, obviously skillfully forged and finely decorated, but functional in design. Castiel identifies a young man in near identical plate as her son, Lord Uriel. The two others, a boy perhaps Dean’s age and a woman a little older, wear similar fine but restrained plate. As they pass Castiel answers Dean’s unasked question.

“My cousin Sir Samandiriel,” he says of the boy, and Dean realizes with a chill that it is the cousin who witnessed the consummation of their marriage, though he is unrecognizable under his helm, “--and my cousin Lady Rachel,” of the woman.

Three others ride past with what appears to be variants upon the royal crest, and as they do he learns they are distant cousins – Lady Hester, Sir Ezekiel and Lord Azrael.

“Azrael may be a contender,” Castiel notes. “He is older now, but in his prime won many tournaments. Princess Raphael was squired to him.”

From Dean’s other side Anael scoffs. “Is he singing the praises of Aunt Raphael and old Lord Azrael?” she asks, leaning over Dean’s lap so she can smirk at her brother.

Dean tenses uncomfortably between the siblings, uncertain of his place in their banter. “So you don’t think Princess Raphael will win then?” he asks.

“Oh out of this field perhaps,” Anael says. “Half the knights will be too scared to lift their lances to her, _beloved_ daughter of old King Edlund as she is, the rest have not the skill if they tried, and Balthazar was so drunk last night if he is able to ride in a straight line it will be a miracle.”

Castiel frowns at the last. “You saw Balthazar last night?” he asks sharply, eyes narrowing.

“Well I saw him face down in a puddle of mead with a wench on each arm,” Anael replies serenely.

Castiel sighs and shifts in his seat.  “He had an appointment with me which he did not deign to keep.”

“Are you really surprised?” his sister asks. “You know how terrible he gets before you ride off.” She looks at Dean before she continues. “He’s always convinced that each campaign shall be his last and so he attempts to drink the kingdom dry and bed every man and woman over the age of 16 that he possibly can.” She pauses. “Often at the same time. Why I heard from my good friend Lady Muriel that he had _twelve_ girls in his chambers and he-"

 _“Anael,”_ Castiel interrupts sharply, sounding almost embarrassed.

Dean smiles and says; “That sounds like almost every thegn in Winchester,” to reassure Castiel that he’s not offended. “Though none could boast of wooing _twelve_ maidens at once I do not think.”

Anael sniffs and shoots her brother a smug look. “You need not be so stiff around your husband brother, he is not some sheltered convent girl like poor Lady Daphne.”

Castiel stiffens. “Do not speak so disrespectfully of the dead sister,” he tells her, voice gone cold regal once more. “It is unseemly.”

Anael wilts back into her seat, chastised and blushing slightly.

Dean assumes the ‘Lady Daphne’ she spoke of must be Castiel’s late wife. He really needs to find out more about his husband and his court, since he’s now a part of it. To remain ignorant of so much is a recipe for disaster.

Christian passes the stand soon after, almost unrecognizable in Edenish plate armor. He sits his horse well though, of course, being rídend. He tips his lance at Castiel then salutes King John in the Saxon manner.

“Your cousin looks very fine in his armor,” Anael says admiringly. “You Saxons are all so tall and handsome.”

Dean restrains the urge to roll his eyes. “Victor and Benny are better rídend than Christian,” he tells her. “He was trained at Court in Winchester, not on the battlefield. His sister Lady Gwen is both a better spear, sword _and_ shot with a bow.”

Anael leans closer, intrigued at the gossip. “Oooh. Well, that’s not what the ladies at court are saying. Your cousin has been talking himself up it seems.”

“That is hardly shocking,” Dean drawls.

Anael tilts her head thoughtfully. “Why do you not ride then?” she asks.

“Common sense,” Dean tells her, because even if he were capable of sitting horse right now, he would not. “I have never even seen a tilt, nor held a Northern lance or worn plate armor. I’d probably fall off my horse.”

Anael gives him a sly look. “We can only hope your boastful cousin Thegn Christian can do so in your place then.”

All thoughts of Christian are dismissed from Dean’s mind when a minute later a knight in dark armor with what looks like a crow on his shield stops before them and waves his lance around a bit before yanking off his helm, standing in his stirrups and calling out: “CASSIE DARLING! A TRINKET FOR THIS POOR KNAVE SO I MIGHT RIDE IN THY HONOR?”

 Or at least that’s what Dean _thinks_ he says, he’s bellowing in archaic formal Enochian and he misses a bit.

Anael titters, as do most of the crowd. Castiel groans and mutters “ _Balthazar”_ under his breath.

“NO?” the knight continues, and then, to Dean’s horror turns his attention to him. “WHAT OF YOU THEN?” he asks and Anael grabs at Dean’s arm and laughs. “OH PRINCE DEAN, GOLDEN SOUTHERN BEAUTY,” the knight – Sir Balthazar apparently - sings out dramatically. “WILT THOU NOT FAVOR THIS POOR WRETCHED SOUL WITH SOME SMALL TOKEN SO HE MIGHT RIDE DOWN THIS RABBLE IN THY NAME?”

There is laughter echoing all around so Dean smiles and pretends he finds the display amusing when in actuality he wants nothing more than to punch the smirking blonde idiot in the mouth. In front of him both Benny and Victor are shooting looks back over their shoulders like they would be happy to do so on his behalf.

“Go on!” Anael hisses. “A favor! Throw him something Dean!”

Dean looks at her in a panic. _“What?_ What do I throw at him??”

“A rock perhaps,” Castiel mutters.

Dean looks down at himself for some ‘token’. He vaguely recalls tales of Edenish knights wearing scarfs and kerchiefs, but he has neither, so in a panic he pulls a random pin off his cloak and tosses it down. Sir Balthazar catches it neatly. “A PIN!” he yells, holding it aloft so it catches in the light. “A GOLDEN PIN FROM OUR GOLDEN PRINCE!” The crowd roars.

“Frige have mercy,” Dean mutters through his teeth as he smiles blankly. Thankfully Sir Balthazar seems to be done and he continues on his circuit, holding the damn pin up so everyone can see.

“I take it back,” Dean says, glaring at the knight’s back. “No thegn would behave like that.”

“Oh he means no harm,” Anael says. “He just has a particular… exuberance.” She glances at her brother who is glaring at the knight’s back. “He and Castiel are dear friends.”

Dean can’t say he thinks much of the king’s taste.

The first tilt proves to be the most exciting of the first dozen. A knight with a chalice on his silly little shield rides down another with a sword on his, and the chalice knight ends up knocked off in the first pass and dragged along in the dirt by his horse. On the second pass they manage to knock each other off simultaneously and then the sword knight does some yelling but all Dean can make out of the irate Enochian is ‘mother’ and something about a donkey. The chalice knight seems to take great offense and they end up having a brawl in the middle of the yard, their horses wandering around the field looking for grass to graze upon. A trumpet is blown repeatedly and eventually the two men are torn apart by guards.

On the third pass chalice knight is knocked off again and the sword knight declared winner, at which point the chalice knight pulls him down off his horse and the brawling resumes.

The more sedate, though still brutal, tilts that follow don’t offer nearly so much drama and Dean finds it increasingly difficult to remain sitting still. His backside aches and there is a burning throb of pain from where Castiel left him raw. He sips at the rich red wine they are served praying it will numb the pain a little.

The day drags on however, a blur of horses and shattered lances and the screaming of the crowd. Christian rides when the sun is nearing its zenith and, regrettably, performs well enough to advance to the next round. Shortly afterwards servants bring them food where they sit so they need not break for the midday meal, but Dean does not feel confident eating more than a few bites. His guts still feel strange and untrustworthy.

Anael provides a running commentary of gossip and background information on each knight that rides, and by the time the round is over and the sun has set, Dean feels he has learned more about the court and nobility of Eden in the last few hours than in his entire life. He knows that King Edlund – Castiel and Anael’s grandfather – married twice with his sons Michael, Lucifer and Gabriel born to his first consort and Raphael much later to the second. After his death there was civil war between their father King Michael and Prince Lucifer. Michael was heir and had been groomed to succeed, but Lucifer had wanted the crown for himself and since he was King Edlund’s favorite, many sided with him thinking that would have been their dead king’s will. Princess Raphael and most of the nobility had sided with Michael, but Prince Gabriel, the middle child, had refused to choose and had instead withdrawn to his palace in the east, where he remained in a sort of lavish exile.

Dean knows all this, vaguely, but Edenish history is hardly a matter of great interest in Wessex and many of the details Anael shares are all new to him.  His head swims with new information as they walk back to the palace for the evening feast. Again he avoids eating for the most part, nibbling at a few things only to calm his empty stomach. There are fewer courses than at the feast the night before, but it is still hours before the final dish – some sort of fruit ice – is served and Dean can excuse himself without appearing hasty.

Even though he did little more than sit all day, Dean finds himself exhausted. Garth and Gordon, his guards for the night, attempt to draw him into discussion of the joust and the wagers they have made – Garth having already amassed a small fortune apparently - but he is forced to wave them off after sharing only a single cup of wine with them, his eyelids heavy and drooping.

He washes and dresses for bed already half asleep and is confused and disorientated for a minute when he is awoken a few hours later by Gordon announcing Castiel. He had forgotten to expect him.

It goes much the same way. Castiel adjusts his trousers and robes, Dean rises up on his knees and then there are several minutes of burning pain as Castiel takes him and Dean struggles to remain silent and co-operative. Afterwards, as Dean lays on his stomach as per Castiel’s instructions, his husband pours himself a cup of wine from the bottle abandoned earlier and sits on the edge of the bed.

“Did you enjoy the jousting?” he asks. “Anael was very pleased with your company, but you seemed distracted?”

Dean’s eyes are still watering with the pain of Castiel fucking him, his heart racing unsteadily, and he wishes only for Castiel to leave so he might recover in privacy. “No... It was quite interesting,” he tells him, voice only slightly hoarse. “It seems a sport requiring both… skill and daring. I see why your knights favor it so.” He does not add how entirely useless such skills would be on the battlefield and how pointless the entire exercise seems.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “Though I suppose the melee will be more to your southern tastes.”

Dean tries to sound interested. “I am sure it will most entertaining.”

“Your cousin Christian has won many of your southern melee has he not?” Castiel asks. “I look forward to see him compete.”

Dean turns his head so he can see Castiel, annoyed enough at the mention of Christian to make the effort. “To my knowledge the only melee Christian has ever won was one held in Campbellfyrd two winters past, and only then because Lord Campbell and his rídend and rídereas had been called to the eastern front by Lord Singer. Of the thegn that rode north with us, my father, Victor, Gordan and Benny have all won more melee.” Castiel stares, looking taken aback at the quiet venom of Dean’s words. “I suppose Christian might be able to best a few of the stable boys we brought north with sword and shield, but do not judge the skill of the rídend of Wessex upon him or you will be sorely disappointed.”

Castiel frowns in confusion. “Then why do not any of the other thegn enter?”

Dean sighs. “I imagine for the same reason so many knights would not tilt against your aunt today. Christian is proud and would not take defeat by a lower born man very well.” Dean snorts. “He does not take defeat from a _higher_ born man very well even.”

“Yes, I suppose as an _aetheling_ \--" Castiel puts strange emphasis on what to him is a foreign term, “--facing him would be worrisome for your men.”

“He is no _aetheling_ ,” Dean snaps. “The only aethelingas are myself, my brother, my Uncle Lord Robert and my cousin Lady Joanna-Beth. Christian has no king’s blood. He is a cousin on my mother’s side.”

“Oh,” Castiel replies shortly. “I simply assumed… he is accorded such respect… And King John calls him nephew…” He shrugs apologetically. “I sense you are not so fond of him however?”

Dean sighs, suddenly feeling young and stupid for reacting so bitterly in front of the king. “It is nothing,” he mutters. “We quarreled much as children is all. I think Christian supposes he should have been a prince instead of me.”

“Well he did not handle that disappointment very well,” Castiel remarks. “He should have simply married you instead of antagonizing you. King John is clearly fond of him, he probably would have welcomed such a match.”

Dean stares at Castiel in horror.

“And then he would have been a prince in truth, and one day ruled at your side,” Castiel finishes.

“I’d nevermarry that – _that_ _dick!”_ Dean exclaims.

“Well obviously you feel that way now Dean, but if your cousin had been friendlier to you, I doubt your dislike of him would hold such vehemence.” He finishes his wine and stands. “After all, you agreed to marry me and you knew nothing of me save whatever rumors make it south into Wessex.”

Dean stares up at his husband dumbfounded. It is on the tip of his tongue to blurt: ‘ _I never agreed to marry you!’_ but thankfully he is able to swallow the words back down.

“Sleep well,” Castiel says, and gives a little nod.

Dean mumbles something back at him and then he is gone. He considers getting up and washing again, but he is too tired and he knows moving will jar his abused body back into pain, and it has been lulled to a low ache by his lack of movement.

In the morning the old serving woman who brings him his ignored breakfast tsks at the state of his bed linens.


	4. Chapter 4

The second day of jousting is more exciting, in that Balthazar rides thrice and on each occasion dedicates his victory to Dean with increasingly ridiculous epithets praising his beauty and gold and on one particularly horrible occasion, his ‘SHAPELY SAXON BACKSIDE, WHICH SO ENTHRALLS OUR BELOVED KING’. Castiel seems to find the entire thing nearly as mortifying as Dean, but the crowd laps it up and so Dean smiles and laughs and plays along with it. (Although after Balthazar puts Christian on his back three times in quick succession, Dean finds it easier to clap and cheer for his ‘champion’.)

Princess Raphael and Balthazar thin out the finalists - Azrael, Samandiriel, Hester, Rachel and Uriel all falling by the wayside along with half a dozen knights of lesser Houses, until only they remain.

Balthazar appears to have no compunction about taking aim at the Princess’s heart, and on the first pass they both break lances.

On the second Raphael’s misses and Balthazar’s does not. On the third the opposite holds true and Balthazar is nearly unhorsed and loses his helm. The steel is buckled and it soon becomes apparent that he will not be able to get it back on. Rather than forfeit or call for another, he instead holds up Dean’s pin and makes some ridiculous claim about how Dean’s favor will protect him, thankfully refraining from making references to Dean’s ass this time.

Dean watches, for the first time distracted entirely from the discomfort that he is beginning to suspect must be part and parcel of wedded life, as the two face off. He honestly expects Raphael to take Balthazar’s head. She has not displayed any sort of mercy in any of her jousts thus far. However fate is with Balthazar.

The Princess’s lance slides off his shield while his shatters into splinters against her breastplate, and Balthazar has won.

Dean’s clapping is not false, he's actually impressed, and judging from the stamping and yelling coming from the stands, so is everyone else.

Balthazar rides a circuit waving and blowing kisses to the galleries before stopping before the Royal stand. Castiel sighs deeply and as Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eyes, he straightens in his seat, like he's steeling himself. Balthazar stands in his stirrups and extends an arm towards Dean and Dean has a terrible sense of foreboding. “IT IS YOU WHO IS TRULY VICTORIOUS TODAY OH LUMINOUS PRINCE DEAN,” he declares. “--FOR IT WAS THE LIGHT OF YOUR RAPTUROUS GOLDEN BEAUTY THAT LIT MY WAY!” In front of him Dean can see Benny and Victor’s shoulders shaking as they try to hold in laughter. “PRINCE DEAN! IT IS WITH _JOYOUS_ ANTICIPATION I AWAIT MY SALUTE AS YOUR CHAMPION!”

The crowd seem to be going mad, the screaming and cheering is so loud. Castiel has a pinched expression on his face, like he is moments from leaping from his throne and throttling someone, and Dean has no idea what’s going on. Anael leans over and hisses gleefully into his ear. “ _You have to kiss him!”_

Dean balks. “ _What!?”_

He has never kissed _anyone._ Not really. He kissed Sammy and his mother when he was a child, and he has hugged and kissed Lady Ellen and Joanna-Beth on their cheeks in greeting, but apart from that… He turns and looks to Castiel for reprieve. “I don’t have to _kiss_ him do I?!”

The king sighs. “It _is_ tradition,” he admits glumly. He flicks a quick glare down at the Sir Balthazar. “Be careful. He’s a cad and a braggart. The more he can fluster you the more he will enjoy it.”

Anna nudges him and gives him and encouraging smile. Dean stands and the cheering somehow manages to increase. He avoids looking at his father as Benny and Victor shuffle apart, both grinning, so he can lean forward over the railing. Balthazar guides his horse over, still waving to the crowd and showing off. Up close he is older than Dean realized, closer to his father’s age rather than Castiel’s as he had assumed. He is still handsome but there are lines around his eyes and mouth and his hair has faded. Still, Dean supposes there are worst people to share a first kiss with. Christian... Zachariah... 

He swallows and steels himself. He doesn’t care what the tradition might be exactly, he is going to kiss Balthazar on the cheek and leave it at that. As he draws level Balthazar winks. “Pucker up darling,” he leers.

What little admiration his prowess on the field had earned him in Dean’s eyes vanishes. Taking a firm hold of the knight’s shoulder Dean leans forward and presses his lips to the man’s cheek. Up close he smells of horse and sweat, but those are things Dean is accustomed to so they don’t bother him. His stubble pricks at Dean’s lips though, tickles him uncomfortably. The kiss would have been fine however- brief and perfunctory - except a gauntleted hand grabs at Dean’s jaw and suddenly there are lips and teeth and a warm, wet _tongue_ and Dean is shocked and angry and his body responds automatically. He jerks back and shoves at Balthazar’s shoulder, except the grip on his jaw tightens and the steel of Balthazar’s gauntlet pinches his skin painfully, and before he realizes exactly what he is doing, he has twisted the kinght’s arm and his horse rears and then Balthazar is lying in the dirt at the bottom of the stand and his horse his trotting away down the field.

For a moment everything seems very quiet and Dean’s stomach drops. Benny is choking on his laughter, shaking where he is pressed against Dean's side, and Victor is grinning down at the Endenish knight in the dirt in transparent delight.

Dean is not brave enough to turn and see what his father and new husband are doing.

“LOVE!” Balthazar yells from the dirt up into the deafening silence. “I AM IN LOVE!” Instantly there is laughter and cheering. Dean blushes, but admits the idiot at least is handling being tossed on his ass in front of so many spectators with more grace than some. “DEAN OF WESSEX! OH WHAT A PRINCE IS HE! I AM UNMANNED – NAY - UH _HORSED_ BEFORE HIM!”

Dean shakes his head and returns to his seat glowering. Castiel’s lips are twitching and he appears to be trying very hard not to laugh. Anael is making no such attempt, snorting into a kerchief, and the rest of the lords and ladies in the King’s box seem likewise amused. When Dean’s eyes traitorously dart in that direction, even his father is smiling a little, a slight curve to his lips beneath his beard.

“That went far better than I thought,” Castiel murmurs in an aside to him. “It is nice to see Balthazar put in his place for a change.”

“He’s a dick,” Dean returns unthinkingly, then freezes, worried he’s offended the king, but Castiel just inclines his head in agreement.

“You would not be the first to come to such a conclusion,” he says.

***

At the evening feast Sir Balthazar is seated at the high table between Dean and Anael in honor of his victory. He drinks a lot and talks very loudly. His jokes and lewd comments about Castiel and Dean seem to amuse everyone else, but Dean finds himself gripping his cutlery tightly and having to restrain the urge to throttle or stab the man. The smug spark in Balthazar’s eyes tells Dean that he’s perfectly aware of how irritating he finds him, but that only seems to encourage him. He devotes far too much of his attention and so called ‘wit’ to Dean.

Dean drains several glasses of sweet Edenish wine, swallows a few mouthfuls of some pork thing dressed with honey, (Balthazar asks him if he is ‘minding his girlish figure’), and then excuses himself before the last course is even served. The offense of leaving the festivities early seems preferable to murdering the tourney champion at the high table. The look Castiel gives him as he bids him a polite goodnight is almost jealous, like he wishes he could follow Dean’s lead and escape too.

Christian is on his door with Garth, so he does not share wine or talk with his thegn before he turns in.

He sits on the bed, atop a pillow to ease his discomfort and reads over the last letter he received from Sam almost three months past. He recalls that he wrote back with details of an attack upon Hayton, one of the smaller border towns, and how they had tracked the band of raiders to the marshes west of Guilford before pinning them down and taking them out. It was not long ago, and yet it feels like another lifetime. He wonders what his brother is doing in Campbellfyrd, if their grandfather is as gruff and unwelcoming as Dean remembers from childhood. He recalls their grandmother, his namesake Lady Deanna, far more fondly, but she is long dead sadly.

He is lost in such musings when Christian lets himself in. “His majesty has come to bend you over your highness,” he tells Dean with a leer. “Did you want me to stay and watch? I wouldn’t mind a repeat performance.”

 _“Get out,”_ Dean sneers at him in naked disgust. It is difficult to accept that they share blood, that kind Lady Deanna was _Christian's_ grandmother also. 

It is no better or worse than the night before, but Dean thinks he is getting better at controlling himself. He can keep his breathing more or less even now, even when Castiel grips his hips and fucks into him harder as he finishes. Afterwards Dean closes his stinging eyes and turns his head, waiting for the aching burn to fade to something more manageable.

Castiel again pours himself wine. It seems fucking Dean leaves him with a thirst. “You appeared to enjoy today’s joust more than yesterday’s, despite Balthazar’s antics,” he says and Dean wonders if this will become habit. Awkward conversation as he lays bloody and raw, Castiel’s seed stinging as it leaks out of him, the air close and thick with the smell of their joining; salt, blood and the herbal scent of the oil Castiel slicks himself with --

“Yes,” Dean replies dully. “It was quite exciting.”

It is silent for a few minutes as Castiel sips his wine and Dean lays motionless. He thinks perhaps he should attempt to make conversation, but he finds it hard to speak politely to his husband when he hurts so much. Eventually he manages: “It is the melee tomorrow. I look forward to seeing Edenish knights fight.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “It should be most enjoyable. Though a bloodier affair.”

“It’s not a good melee if there’s no blood.”

“I suppose that is one way to look at it…”

Dean hears the shuffling of his clothing as he stands and the clink of his cup as he places it on the table. He forces himself to open his eyes and look up.

Castiel straightens his robe then meets Dean's gaze. “Good night, Dean,” he offers.

“Good night, Castiel,” Dean replies and gets a nod in return.

After the mess he woke up to that morning, Dean forces himself to the garderobe and passes what he can before cleaning the remaining blood, come and oil off his skin. The sheets are stained again he notes when he returns to bed. Little smudges of blood and oil left as evidence of Castiel’s visit. Dean curls up on the opposite side and forces himself not to think on it.

 _I am young,_ he tells himself, trying to ignore the throbbing ache within. _Perhaps I will catch within a week or two and there will be no more of this until Castiel requires another heir._

That could be years. The Edenish do not seem to go in for big families. Dean thinks Castiel will be happy with perhaps only two or three children. An heir and a couple of spares. Hopefully that will not require many visits to Dean’s chamber. And with the reprieve between them, he will be able to bear it.

When the servants come to change his bed linen and serve his breakfast, the women who strip his mattress purse their lips and frown at the stains, nattering to each other in latin. Dean pretends not to notice and stirs cream and honey into his sharp Northern tea. He is starving and feels light-headed with his hunger, so he eats an egg and a piece of thick bacon even though he knows he may regret it latter.

The melee is actually quite boring. The only part of it Dean finds diverting is how stupid men attempting to fight in full plate armor look. It is difficult to maintain the appropriately tense attitude when most of the time he wants to laugh at them.

He is unsurprised when Christian, dressed in his gleaming mail and tooled leather, makes mincemeat of half a dozen blundering knights who can hardly see through their visors. The Edenish are impressed, cheering loudly for him, but Garth and Gordon snort and mutter quietly to each other where they stand guarding Dean, and across the galleries Dean can see Benny and Victor arguing and rolling their eyes as they are forced to watch a less skilled warrior lap up glory that could be easily have been theirs. Dean wishes he were in a state to fight. Facing Christian in a melee would be immensely satisfying. More satisfying even than the winter before last, when he visited back home and won the melee in Winchester.

Beside him Anael gasps and hangs on Christian’s every move. Even Castiel seems enthralled, watching very intently.

Christian wins, easily, and is lauded as melee champion. Since he has been seated at the high table all week anyway, dinner is no worse despite his victory. Dean has to listen to northerners who don’t know any better fawn over him, but his annoyance makes it easier to ignore the delicious smelling food and eat only sparingly.

Castiel visits Dean’s chamber earlier that night, arriving only minutes after Dean himself.

Dean has not changed and is instead sitting at his desk and haltingly composing a letter to Sam. He has vague intentions of penning another to his uncle as well. He recalls now his uncle’s displeasure at receiving King John’s missive that ordered Dean back to Winchester, and suspects it was because he knew he was to be married. As much as he appreciates Lord Singer’s anger on his behalf, he does not understand why the man didn’t _warn_ him. It stings. More than his father's silence perhaps.

Did they all truly believe Dean would run? That he would shirk his duty and jeopardize the alliance with Eden? Over a _marriage_ of all things?

Dean is wondering what he has done to warrant such distrust when Castiel is let into his chambers.

Seeing Dean dressed and not abed seems to throw the king somewhat. Dean waits, half expecting his husband to tell him to strip and lie down on the bed, but instead he crosses to stand nearby, leaning against the wall beside the window. The muted light from the fire, the lamp at Dean’s elbow and the moonlight through the window hit him favorably and Dean realizes with an odd sort of shock that he is actually very handsome. His hair is wild and there is a slight frown across his brow - both of which seem to be permanent features for him – and as Dean watches he licks his bottom lip absently. _They are nice lips,_ Dean thinks. _Much better to kiss than Balthazar’s._

Of course such thoughts are ridiculous. He and Castiel are married for reasons that have nothing to do with kissing.

“You are writing to companions in the south?” Castiel asks.

“I had thought to,” Dean admits. “Though perhaps I should wait a few days so I may regale them with the entirety of the _paracleda_ festivities.”

“Well, there will be the archery contest on the morrow,” Castiel agrees “And then the river pageant.”

“What’s a river pageant?” Dean asks curiously.

Castiel grimaces. “Quite a tedious thing actually. The court parades along the river in decorated boats and barges and the common folk wave from bridges.” He sighs. “Usually they devolve into debauchery and drunkenness and inevitably someone falls in and nearly drowns.”

“That doesn’t sound tedious,” Dean teases.

Castiel almost smiles. “The king unfortunately, is expected to be above the weakness of his court.”

“A shame,” Dean muses. “So we won’t be taking a drunken boat ride?”

“I will not begrudge you your wine Dean, you hold it in a seemly manner,” he says, flicking his eyes in an aside that is almost playful. “It seems to be ale that has you Saxons roaring and ranting.”

Dean starts to object, but changes his mind. “You might be right.”

“Mmmm. Judging from your thegn, it is a weakness,” Castiel says. “Even your father becomes rather pink-cheeked and talkative after a few flagons.”

“He _sings_ if you get him drunk enough,” Dean blurts without thinking.

Castiel is definitely smiling, Dean is sure of it. “Really?” he asks.

Dean nods. “My uncle is the same. Must run in the blood.”

Castiel gives him a sly look. “Does that mean _you_ sing after too much ale Dean?”

It is odd to hear him speak so casually - light and friendly - and Dean finds himself laughing a little louder than the comment warrants. “Uh, yeah. I may have been guilty of that a time or two.”

Castiel glances towards the bed and Dean chokes on his laughter, his good humor gone at the abrupt reminder of _why_ Castiel is actually in his chamber. It is not to make idle conversation, it is to perform his duties in the marriage bed. Dean pushes his chair out and unbuckles his boots, toeing them off before standing. Castiel’s eyes flick to the over-sized pillow he’d taken from the bed and wedged on the chair so he could sit comfortably. For some reason the way he notices the small detail is embarrassing, makes Dean’s cheeks flame. He averts his eyes as he pulls off his belt, then lifts his tunic and undershirt over his head. It is not until Dean starts on the fastening to his trousers that Castiel joins him. To Dean’s surprise he doesn’t simply pull his tunic out of the way and open his trousers as he has done in the past, he instead echoes Dean’s own movements and strips entirely.

It is the first time they have been naked in each other’s presence since their wedding night and Dean feels nervous in a way he has not the past few times he has lain with Castiel. When he steps forward Dean is conscious of every bit of space between them, his skin prickling in the cool night air. Again Dean finds himself thinking that Castiel is handsome. He is of a height with Dean, not as broad across the shoulders, but strong and lean. And his face is very pleasing, the blue of his eyes, the line of his jaw and the slight pout of his lips…

Castiel appears to return that regard because he looks hard at Dean, eyes slipping almost greedily over his body before he steps closer and places a hand on Dean’s hip. To his shock, Dean feels himself hardening slightly, blood thickening in his cock. Castiel notices too, and he seems to like it - staring down at Dean where he is swelling for a long moment, his expression almost hungry - and when he looks up again, Dean thinks for a second that he is going to be kissed. He licks his lips.

Instead Castiel says; “Yes. I will have you now.”

The warmth in Dean’s veins cools swiftly, replaced by something that is both anger and embarrassment. He nods jerkily and turns to arrange himself upon the bed. Castiel follows, a warm shape behind him. As he reaches over Dean for the bottle of oil, his dick smears a hot wet smudge against the small of his back and Dean swallows and closes his eyes tightly. The familiar scent of the oil – sharp and herbal - instantly has his teeth on edge, but he remains docile and still as wet fingers slip between his asscheeks and dab at him where he feels puffy and raw. It somehow manages to both soothe the tender knot of muscle there and sting at the same time.

The blunt shape of Castiel’s cock as it nudges against him has Dean bracing himself and holding his breath. His eyes water at the sharp burn and aching stretch as Castiel works himself inside in firm jerking movements. The hurt is just the same always, like he is being split in two, torn in half, but the way Castiel gasps a little and groans when he is fully seated is new. As is the greasy hand that slides up Dean’s spine to paw at his neck before twisting in his shorn hair.

It does not last as long, for which Dean is grateful, but Castiel’s attentions are rougher, his thrusts into Dean’s body quick and deep, and the pain quickly builds enough to have Dean red-faced and panting, which only seems to excite Castiel more, make him pull at Dean’s hair and slam into him harder. When he finishes, buried so deep Dean half expects to taste him in his throat, Castiel collapses heavy and hot onto Dean’s back, his mouth wet and warm on his shoulder.

Dean waits for a minute or two, trying to ignore the terrible ache of Castiel still thick inside him, the way his body clenches and flexes around him, like it’s trying to push him out, but eventually he shifts a little and clears his throat. “Could you…?” he asks and Castiel instantly pulls himself up off and _out_ of Dean. A rush of warm liquid follows and Dean hopes it is just come and blood.

“You still bleed,” Castiel says in confusion, or perhaps accusation. “Every time I lay with you.”

When he looks over his shoulder Castiel is frowning down at the mess he has made of Dean’s ass. He swallows thickly and tries to keep his voice easy. “Is that… not normal?”

Castiel’s frown deepens and he looks up to meet Dean’s gaze. “I don’t think so?”

Dean shrugs. “Well I don’t know,” he says, adding, hesitantly: “Is there something I’m meant to be doing?”

Castiel purses his lips and crooks his head in thought.

“It’s just… no one… no one told me about this stuff,” Dean admits in a quiet rush. “I mean, the soldiers all talk, and gods know I heard some things late at night at camp… but…” he trails off in embarrassment.

“Men don’t get wet like women,” Castiel tells him, “So oil is required.” His cheeks are already colored from his exertions, but they redden a little more and Dean can see he finds this as difficult to discuss as he does. “I spoke to an acquaintance experienced upon the matter before we were wed and other than that, he said there is little difference between the acts of procreation, be it with a man or a woman.”

Dean nods. That’s more or less what he had heard. There’d always been jokes about the oil rations. He licks his lips. “Maybe I just haven’t healed?” he hazards. “Perhaps after the… the _paracleda_ ends, we could wait a few days and see if the bleeding stops?” _And the pain_ Dean adds silently to himself.

Castiel nods. “Yes. That seems wise,” he agrees. “My men will not be mustered for war until the thaws.” He gets up and crosses to the garderobe. Through the open door Dean sees him at the wash stand, pouring out a little water into the bowl and dampening a cloth to wash himself. Dean stares, shocked for some reason to see him behave so casually, do something so mundane and ordinary as wipe his spent cock clean. “A few days can certainly be spared,” he continues. “There will be time enough for us to conceive before then.”

The leaves have not yet begun to turn and fall, and Yule and Modranicht are far off. It will be months before the thaws. Dean certainly prays it will not take so long for him to catch. Enduring winter and Yule surrounded by the Edenish with their strange god and rituals will be hard enough without having to bear a visit to his chamber from Castiel every night.

Castiel passes him a damp cloth and Dean clenches it in his fist uselessly, not wishing to reach between his thighs and clean himself while Castiel remains in the room, the act too obscene.

Castiel redresses, oblivious to his discomfort. “I will fetch you for the Archery on the morrow?” he asks eventually.

Dean nods.

“Very good. Sleep well, Dean.”


	5. Chapter 5

Dean awakens ravenous and allows himself a small bowl of thick oats with honey. The serving woman who comes to clear his table seems pleased that he has eaten something, though Dean is sure if he remains he will bear witness to more complaining and nattering in latin over the state of the bedding when she returns to freshen it, but Castiel arrives to collect him for the archery before then.

He takes Dean’s arm as they make their way through the palace and down the main gate. There are carriages and horses waiting and milling Edenish lords and ladies all around. Dean is embarrassed to be standing at the King’s side with his hand on his arm like a woman but Castiel seems entirely at ease.

“The archery field is past the Cathedral,” Castiel tells him. “It is not so far to walk, but the streets will be busy and we would be waylaid if we tried.”

They take a strange Edenish carriage. Inside it is lavish – like a tiny wheelhouse – but it could seat no more than four comfortably, six at a squeeze. It is not too chilly, so Dean leaves the shutter on his widow open and looks out at the streets as they pass. People stop and wave and call out greetings when they recognize the carriage. Castiel waves back at them and nods his head in thanks, so Dean emulates him though he feels ridiculous waving through the windows. He’d much rather be on a horse.

They pass along several streets lined with two and three story high buildings – stone with brightly painted wooden shutters - and then pass what must be the cathedral. It is huge. A palace into itself. And _tall._ Dean recognizes it from his approach to the city.

“The roof is silver?” he asks Castiel curiously.

“An alloy,” he concedes. “Pure silver would tarnish too easily.”

“The palace roof is similar?”

Castiel nods. “One of my forebears had a flare for the dramatic.”

“It makes for a very striking view,” Dean tells him.

“I am told Wōden’s Temple in Winchester is roofed in gold,” Castiel replies in a slightly awkward and quite transparent attempt to return the compliment.

Dean smiles at him a little. “Parts of it,” he replies, “The courtyard is open though - the gods do not like stone over their heads. Or gold for that matter.”

Castiel licks his lips and seems to think carefully for a few moments. “I do not expect you to take up the true God Dean,” he says. “And there is an old shrine in the Palace grounds you may make use of for your--" he squints and waves a hand vaguely “-- _sacrifice_ and… _offerings_ , but it would be best if you would keep such things… to yourself?”

Dean blinks. He’d honestly not given any thought to that, despite the fact it was the main reason Wessex and Eden had become split centuries earlier, their different gods. “Don’t worry,” Dean mutters. “I’ll not act the heathen in front of the court.”

“It is just… some have strong views about such things,” Castiel explains. “There was opposition to my accepting a Saxon match for that reason. Were it not for the treaty, it would not have been considered.”

Dean feels his cheeks flush. “I’ll not do anything to jeopardize that,” he says, staring blindly out his window, at the pointing crowds and strange buildings without. “I know how important it is that Crowley is stopped once and for all.” He meets Castiel’s eyes for a moment. “Or else I would not be here.”

Castiel inclines his head slightly. “Thank you.”

The walk from where the carriage stops to the pavilion set up alongside the archery range is long enough that each step becomes torture, a raw rub with an accompanying stab from somewhere deep inside. When Dean is finally shown his seat, he more or less collapses in it, uncaring of the new ache the movement jars from him. After much trial and error he settles into a slump that alleviates most of the pressure off where he is most tender, and he endures only a low throb and soreness with the occasional inexplicable stab of sharper pain.

The food that is served throughout the day smells delicious, even if most of it is outlandish fare Dean does not recognize, but thinking on the oats he already ate, on the feast he will have to sit through in the evening and then of the visit Castiel will inevitably pay to his chambers later on, Dean restrains himself and ignored his grumbling stomach.

For the first time since their arrival to Zion, Dean and his father find themselves in close proximity.

Princess Anael is sat at her brother’s side, though she is absent much of morning as she is competing, and King John is sat next to Dean. He offers Dean a few vague pleasantries in quiet West Saxon early in the morning, _(‘It is not so cold as I expected. My rooms are comfortable. Are yours?’ ‘The food is quite passable even if their ale is like water.’ ‘The King’s sister is quite taken with your company. You did well to gift her with that broach.’)_ But makes no mention of Castiel, his marriage or the treaty. Dean simmers in something between a rage and a sulk beside him. There are many things he wants to say to his father, but there are no words and this is not the place.

Princess Anael proves to be a fine shot, advancing through several rounds and making it to the final dozen out of a field of nearly a hundred.

She returns looking quite glum despite this and Dean overhears Castiel congratulating her on improving since the last time he’d seen her compete. His tone is fond and proud and Dean suddenly misses Sam very much. Anael seems cheered by her brother’s enthusiasm despite her loss, and is soon smiling and gossiping with one of her ladies, pink-cheeked with wine.

The atmosphere is different to that at the jousting and melee. Most of the knights and nobility who competed in those are not taking part and instead spend the day eating and drinking and getting progressively louder. The Saxon thegn fall in with them easily, and apart from the guards standing watch over Dean and his father, they are soon indistinguishable from the Edenish companions. To Dean’s mild shock, many of them seem to have even affected Northern dress, their gold brooches and torcs worn over bright Edenish silk and fur. Dean is glad he is no longer the only one dressed so gaudily.

A few of them, including Christian, are sitting with Sir Balthazar and a group of knights playing drinking games and soon end up the noisiest and drunkest of the bunch. Occasionally Dean catches mention of his name or Castiel’s, but he pretends not to hear and carefully avoids looking in their direction. Since he’s in public, he can’t be seen glaring at his cousin or mouthing unseemly things at him. Unfortunately.

Beside him King John clenches his jaw though, the muscle in his temple throbbing, and Dean can see the talk is irritating him almost as much as it is Dean. Eventually he mutters in an aside that “A few days in Zion and your cousin has forgotten his place.”

Dean just hums in vague agreement since in his opinion Christian has _never_ known his place and John’s more or less encouraged him in that particular delusion.

The field has been narrowed to three, and the shots grown near impossible, when Dean hears Christian’s voice, loud with drink, too loud to ignore, float across the pavilion. _“-- but of course that hulk of a thegn of his – Benedikt – had already broken him in on those lonely nights away on campaign, so I doubt he even felt the king!”_

Benny, who isn’t on guard and is drinking with Garth and a few Northern knights not far from Christian turns bright red. Dean’s own anger is forgotten as he watches his friend stand and round on Christian, glaring at him across the pavilion. King John also turns in his chair to watch, frowning. An expectant hush falls over the pavilion as the Edenish stare and whisper to each other excitedly.

_“If you don’t shut your lying whore’s mouth I’ll break **it** in Campbell!”_ Benny roars.

Christian blanches, clearly not realizing how loudly he was talking, of the audience he has acquired. He still manages a dismissive sneer despite his shock however. “I’m not afraid of you _Benny,_ ” he returns, somehow making his shortened name an insult.

Beside him Balthazar seems to be enjoying the confrontation immensely. “He _did_ win the melee just yesterday my dear fellow!” he calls out. “You might want to mind your tongue!”

That, of course, is just rubbing salt into the wound. Benny manages to look even more irate. “Aye, because it would not be proper for a lord’s son and Prince Dean’s kin to be soundly beaten by common thegn and we were obliged not to enter.”

Christian splutters indignantly and Dean bites back a smile, enjoying his cousin’s discomfort thoroughly.

Balthazar’s eyebrows rise in delight. “Ooh!” he crows. “Is that so?” he turns back to Christian. “My dear Prince Christian, what say you to this slur upon your good name?”

Judging from the hush that has fallen across the pavilion, he’s not the only one curious.

“ _His_ good name?!” Benny demands. “What of the filth he was spouting of our Prince and _your_ King!?”

Balthazar hums thoughtfully. “Well, in truth it was _you_ and your darling Prince he spoke of, not our beloved sovereign.”

There are several loud _thwaks_ as one of the remaining archers looses his arrows and makes his marks, but the applause is scattered since hardly anyone is watching, instead focused upon the spectacle the Saxons are making of themselves. Dean glances at his father, wondering if the King means to intervene, but John is just glowering in silent disapproval, like he can’t decide which of them he’s angry at.

“I don’t care!” Benny yells. “No thegn should speak of an aetheling in such a manner!” There is some murmured agreement from the smattering of Saxons present.

Balthazar waves a hand and rolls his eyes. “Now, now, it’s all sport between family,” he says. “Prince Dean knows Prince Christian was only jesting.”

“Why do you keep calling him ‘Prince’?” Victor calls out from where he is sat with a pretty Edenish noblewoman, glaring at Christian. “He’s no more a Prince than I.”

Balthazar looks surprised for a split second. “My West Saxon is rusty, perhaps I misspoke. What, pray tell, is the correct form of address for the nephew of the king?”

To Dean’s shock, it is Castiel who speaks. He does not bother to turn and look towards the quarrelling, instead his voice reaches them in a disinterested drawl. “Thegn Christian of Campbell is named nephew by King John as a kindness.” he says. “It is my understanding their connection is rather more distant. He is the son of the late Queen Mary’s cousin I believe.”

Balthazar shoots a confused look at Christian. “Oh?”

Christian has turned very red.

“He is a thegn and rídend of noble birth sworn to the King’s service, so his rank is not dissimilar to your own Sir Balthazar,” Castiel continues. “Address him as such.”

For a moment the pavilion is still.

“And now that’s sorted you can all stop your hollering,” King John calls out, breaking the tension. “It’s distracting.”

Benny mouths something no doubt inventively threatening at Christian, who now looks like he might be sick, and resumes his seat. Dean turns back to the archery range and smiles to himself. It’s only a small thing, but he takes pleasure in seeing Christian put in his place for a change. Gods know it happens rarely enough.

There are three _thwaks_ as the next archer makes his marks.

Castiel claps politely, King John rather more loudly and pointedly, and everyone else joins in.

The final round is between one Sir Isiah and a Lady Ariel, a cousin of Castiel’s Dean recalls being introduced to at one feast or another. He is no archer himself, but Dean watches curiously. The combatants could not be less alike. Lady Ariel is tall and strong - lovely in the dark manner of Princess Raphael - while Sir Isiah is short and almost alarmingly redheaded. Lady Ariel is using a long bow such as the Edenish are famed for, and Sir Isiah a smaller recurve like those Dean is accustomed to.

Castiel leans slightly towards Dean and tells him; “Lady Ariel is Princess Raphael’s eldest.” Now that he looks again, Dean sees the resemblance plainly, along with some hint of kinship with Castiel in the line of her jaw and the stern set of her brow. “She will win this easily. She has been toying with competitors all afternoon for sport.” He pauses and glances at Princess Anael, checking that her attention is diverted elsewhere. “She went easily on Anna earlier so she might stay in the field longer.”

There is much fondness in his tone and it is the first time Dean has heard him call his sister by anything but her full name. Again he finds himself thinking of Sam, though he tries to push the thoughts away. “So she’s a softer heart than her mother?” he asks. As he speaks he glances curiously across the pavilion to where Castiel’s aunt is sitting with Uriel, Samandiriel and Hester, all four watching the competition intently. “Princess Raphael doesn’t strike me as one to go easy on anyone.”

Castiel snorts softly. “That she does not. Lord Uriel, her youngest, is much the same, but Ariel is thankfully slightly more circumspect. She did not enter the lists for the joust because the prospect of facing her mother and brother and so many kin was not her idea of good sport.”

“Really?” Dean asks in surprise. “I seem to recall all those other cousins of yours knocking each other off their horses with abandon.” He’d been surprised at how cordial they were with each other afterwards. Even Samandiriel, who had ended the joust with a black eye and broken nose after Raphael shattered a lance on his helm. Another glance to his side shows them all conversing quietly, no hint of ill will between them.

Castiel shrugs. “As I said, she is more circumspect.”

As per Castiel’s prediction, Lady Ariel defeats Lord Isiah easily, and when Castiel presents her with the golden statue and purse that are her prize, she manages somehow to curtsey – a gesture Dean still finds bizarre – gravely.

They make their way back to the palace for yet another feast. Dean’s backside aches from another day spent sitting, and he has slightly more difficulty than usual keeping his gait even and not limping. For the first time in his life he is glad all that time spent in the saddle as a child left him a little bowlegged. It makes his discomfort less obvious.

Lady Ariel sits on Dean’s left during the feast in honor of her victory, an experience which is far more enjoyable than having Sir Balthazar as a dining companion. She makes no comment upon Dean’s apparent lack of appetite or what he and Castiel may or may not be doing in his bedchamber and instead of empty gossip, quizzes Dean upon Wessex and Saxon spears and riders and his knowledge of raiders and cursed men. It is far more interesting to discuss the tactics of Eastern raiders than to listen jesting comments about Castiel’s supposed prowess in bed, and the distraction her quiet conversation offers keeps Dean diverted enough from his aches to remain later than he has managed previously.

When she excuses herself however, he follows her example.

Castiel is late in seeking out his company that evening and wakes Dean from his sleep. Their awkward coupling does not hold the same odd sense of urgency as the night before and Dean is grateful for the gentler touch. Afterwards Castiel asks blankly; “Your thegn Benedikt – he is not your lover?”

Dean frowns at Castiel in disbelief. He has barely even caught his breath. “You’re _actually_ asking me that?” he demands, pain making him short tempered.

Castiel blushes slightly but continues to stare at Dean, resolute.

Dean glares at him. “Do I _feel_ ‘broken in’ to you Cas?!” he demands, echoing Christian’s words. “Like I’ve had _Benny_ warming my blankets the last few years?!”

“No,” Castiel grits. “I believe you when you say you were chaste before our marriage, but there could be some romantic connection between you that has not been consummated in that manner, and you _are_ very close, so it seemed pertinent to simply ask rather than to speculate.”

“No,” Dean tells him shortly. “Benny is my thegn and my _friend_ , not my goddamn ‘lover’.”

Castiel nods. “Thank you.” he replies stiffly, getting up and straightening his clothes.

“Anything else you want ask?” Dean snaps. “Worried I’ve been letting Victor or Garth in here after you to have a go?”

Castiel purses his lips. “You are being unnecessarily combative.”

“Yeah well, excuse me for being offended.” Dean returns. “I mean I’m lying here with your fucking _come up my ass_ and you ask me that!”

Castiel sniffs, looking down his nose at Dean like he’s something unpleasant found on the bottom on his shoe. When he speaks his accent is slightly more pronounced than usual. “Such crudeness is both unseemly and uncalled for.”

“Crudeness!?” Dean hisses. “You’re the one accusing me of being unfaithful with _my guard_ a whole five days after our wedding!”

“I did not _accuse!”_ Castiel declares. “I simply _asked!_ You are behaving like a _child!”_

Dean sneers and does just that, ignoring him until he leaves.

***

The River Pageant starts off very awkwardly since Dean and Castiel aren’t exactly on great terms come morning.

Dean is glowering because on top of the usual ache in his backside, he feels bloated and ill since he couldn’t use the privy. All his straining achieved was pain and a few dribbles of blood. This of course makes Castiel’s accusations regarding Benny seem all the more insulting. The pain Castiel is causing him is undeniable _proof_ that he has never had a lover. Let alone a great big lump like Benny.

Castiel meanwhile behaves with perfect remote politeness.

The pageant begins after a lavish luncheon which Dean of course cannot partake of. Castiel leads him to a small ornate barge decorated with flowers and flags and a silken canopy, wherein they recline upon pillows and furs. It is a sunny day, but the air still has a Northern chill to it, and there is a brazier on the deck to provide extra warmth. Dean wants to be annoyed, but he’s been on boats only a precious few times in his life and certainly never a strange little river barge like this one and it’s… interesting.

Lying around on pillows as they slowly make their way through the city is far more comfortable than sitting and clapping all day. Dean drinks as much of the sweet red Edenish wine as he wants purely to annoy Castiel and on his empty stomach it goes straight to his head. Everything gets very fuzzy very quickly and he decides that he is going to have a nap. It’s not like there is anyone to judge him save the serving woman, a boy with a lute and the men on the oars. And in his current mood he doesn’t care if Castiel takes offense. In fact the way he’s pursing his lips and frowning fiercely out at the passing shore when Dean closes his eyes is actually makes him feel slightly smug.

At some point during his nap he gets cold and awakens to burrow deeper into the bed of pillows and furs. Blearily he notes that the river has widened and the city has given way to green fields.

When next he looks up, the banks are dense with trees as they cut through a forest. Hours have passed and the sun hangs low. Dean wonders vaguely how far they are going to travel, and how they are getting back. It’s late afternoon already. He doesn’t really care though; he’s comfortable right where he is. Yawning, he stretches and then lets his eyes shut again.

It is dark when Castiel shakes him awake.

Dean blinks up and him and rubs the sleep from his eyes.

Castiel doesn’t look so annoyed anymore and Dean has slept off most of his own temper (and the wine). “Where are we?” he asks, sitting up and looking out over the water. It is dusk and the other little boats are all nearby, bobbing in the water with glowing lanterns hanging from their bows. Music floats over the water towards them, all different tunes, and people are calling out to one another, most of them clearly drunk.

“We are stopping here for the feast,” Castiel tells him, giving him measuring look, like he is gauging if they are still fighting or not.

“Okay,” Dean says. “And where is here?” He can make out trees and not a lot else.

“Some picturesque spot I imagine,” Castiel says. “We will be eating out of doors.”

It takes a long time for all the silly little boats to take their turns off-loading their cargo of inebriated Edenish courtiers and drunken West Saxon thegn, but eventually Dean finds himself standing amidst some trees in the gathering dark with a lot of loud northerners chattering in Enochian. Servants with torches lead  them through the trees. The air smells fresh and green and the cool night is refreshing after his wine induced coma. Dean relishes it after days hemmed in by the closeness and smells of the city.

As it grows darker they end up more or less stumbling along, their way lit only dimly by the torches. The musicians from the boats are part of the unruly procession and lutes and pipes echo from around them in half a dozen warring melodies. It reminds Dean of something from an old story.

“Are we dining with the æelfas?” he asks Castiel with a smile. “They’re not to be trusted you know.”

“It is an odd procession we make,” Castiel agrees, glancing back at the dawdling masses. “But I assure you will not be dining with any malicious heathen spirits.”

Dean snorts, his good humor lost again at Castiel’s ‘heathen’ comment. Perhaps Dean does not believe _all_ the tales of the gods, he doesn’t truly expect to come across [æelfas, dweorgas or eotenas](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Saxon_paganism#Deities) in the forest, but he still doesn’t like Castiel’s Christian disdain. If Dean must be respectful of his stupid Northern God brought by strangers from across the sea, then Castiel should show Dean’s the same courtesy. Æelfas are no more ridiculous than the men with wings Dean sees pictures of everywhere in Eden, and Dean has seen plenty of people stuck down by [aelfe-shot](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elf#Elf_shot).

Their trek is not long thankfully, so Dean doesn’t have enough time to work himself into another mood, but it’s still long enough for him to start having difficulty walking straight owing to the ache in his ass. Castiel remains, as ever, oblivious to his discomfort. Though that is good thing, Dean finds himself increasingly resentful. If _his_ consort was in such pain, he is certain _he_ would have noticed.

Their destination proves to be a makeshift banquet set up in a clearing overlooking the river they disembarked from. For a moment Dean wonders at that, why the trek through the forest, but then he realizes that the water falls into a terrace of short waterfalls, pools and rapids and is no place to moor boats. Especially ones full of drunks.

The moon is not quite full, but there is still light enough that it makes for a striking view – it is ‘picturesque’ as Castiel had predicted.

There are fires and cooking pits smoking and long trestle tables laden with food. There are no tables and benches to sit at, but instead more pillows and blankets. The drunken crowd seem to approve of this and throw themselves down onto them in haphazard laughing clumps. Anael materializes with several other young ladies in tow, and Dean finds himself in the midst of giggling drunken girls and their admirers, knights for the most part, for the next few hours. Servants wander to and fro among the knots of revelers with wine and ale, and Dean avails himself of both and is still one of the more sedate attendees.

Anael and her ladies, (including the gossip Lady Muriel who spends a good while sitting at Dean’s elbow providing outrageous commentary about those around them), waylay a boy with pipes and girl with some sort of harp and then there is uncoordinated dancing and singing and a lot of falling over, and suddenly all the drunk northerners seem to be following suit and Dean is left sprawled on a pile of abandoned pillows watching in amusement. He spots thegn in the crowd every now and then and his father walking along the riverbank, deep in discussion with Princess Raphael, a bored looking Benny trailing behind.

The wine helps the time pass and being able to lay down instead is a huge improvement upon a seat in the High Hall, and Dean spends the evening in an almost pleasant blur. Castiel offers him murmured conversation occasionally, but there is a steady stream of his kin and courtiers stopping by to occupy the king and Dean is content to just lay at his side half dozing.

At one awful point Balthazar throws himself down beside Dean with a disheveled boy and a red-faced girl and proceeds to kiss and grope then in an alternating, highly disturbing fashion, until Castiel tells him to leave. Victor appears dressed in a crimson northern robe and actually looking quite good in it, with an Edenish Lady on his arm. He is drunker than Dean has ever seen him, and spends half an hour in a rambling soliloquy to the Lady in question’s beauty and wit, before asking Dean where his father is because he needs King John to marry them this instant.

Dean contemplates following his thegn because he imagines his father’s reaction will be memorable, but Victor and his lady disappear into the crowd and he is too content to get up and look for them.

He has no idea what time it is, but he has dozed off several times and his belly is full of wine, when Castiel helps him to his feet and they join the crowd meandering back towards the boats.

The journey seems far longer and perilous, with a lot more tree roots and rocks and things than Dean remembers. Castiel takes his arm after he stumbles for the… after he stumbles a few times, and since the terrain is so treacherous Dean deigns to allow it. There is a lot of laughter and splashing over near the boats, and Dean spies several people bobbing the water, having fallen or jumped overboard.

“If no one drowns it will be a miracle,” Castiel grumbles.

Dean thinks it poor sport for him to be so grumpy when everyone else is having such a good time, so he tells him so and then presses his fingers to his mouth when he huffs and starts to make some no doubt ill-tempered response _. “Shhhhhh,”_ Dean says and then laughs because Castiel’s confused frown is still evident from his furrowed brow and squinting, even if his actual mouth is hidden beneath Dean’s hand.

He ends up leaning heavily upon Castiel as they step onto their boat because as much fun as the people in the water seem to be having, Dean has no desire to join them. Instead he lets Castiel guide him across the little deck and back to their mound of pillows. Dean flings himself down, making the boat rock, and stares out of the gauzy hangings at the river beyond. The other boats are lit up with braziers and torches and they glitter and send pretty twinkling reflections along the water.

“Yes Dean, it is very pretty,” Castiel agrees, the amusement in his voice novel since he is always so stern. Dean realizes he has been talking out loud. “Which is something of a shame as I think the view wasted. I doubt anyone will remember much of this evening at all.”

Dean rolls over and looks up at him where he is sitting up straight amidst the pillows. “They’ll remember that is was _fun,_ ” Dean tells him. “That’s what matters.” He frowns. “You know you’re meant to lie down right?” he asks, gesturing at the pillows and furs. “I mean, I’m just a southern heathen and even I figured that much out.”

Castiel tilts his head and looks at Dean, and then at the pillows and blankets he’s stretched out on. “You have taken all the pillows,” he says. “And the decking does not seem a very comfortable surface to recline upon.”

Dean sits up unsteadily. Around them the water slaps evenly as their boatmen dip their oars and aim them back up river. He realizes Castiel is right. All the cushions and blankets _are_ nestled around him. Graciously he rearranges them into a more diplomatic split. “Here,” he says, passing Castiel one. It is overstuffed and has rather too many tassels in Dean’s opinion.

Castiel accepts it, looking down at the patterned silk as if Dean has just handed him a strange otherworldly object, not a cushion.

“It’s called a pillow Castiel,” Dean tells him as he wiggles around to get comfortable once more. “You put it under your ass.” He probably should not talk so crudely to a king, but he’s too drunk to care.

There is a lot of shuffling around and Dean watches with drowsy amusement as Castiel hesitantly rearranges his share of the bedding and then lies down. He lays perfectly straight, his hands clasped over his chest. He looks incredibly uncomfortable and shoots Dean a look almost as if he wants to check if he is doing it right.

Dean snorts. He looks more like a body arranged on a funeral pyre than someone relaxing. “You’re meant to _relax_ ,” he tells him.

“I am relaxed,” Castiel insists defensively. “I just find the rocking of the water slightly… unsettling.”

“What? Really?”

Castiel nods. There’s singing drifting across the water from a nearby boat. Dean recognizes the tune but not the Enochian words being sung along to it.

“S’nice,” Dean says. “Soothing. Kinda like being on a horse. A really big, slow horse. Except way more comfy.” It really is. So comfortable in fact that Dean’s eyes are drooping and he’s at risk of slipping into another wine-induced snooze. Since there doesn’t seem to be any particular reason not to, he doesn’t fight it. He sighs and lets his eyes slide shut, lulled by the gentle rock of the boat and the sounds of singing and laughing echoing across the water from the rest of their strange flotilla.

It gets cold as the night settles in and Dean rolls over, dragging a blanket over his shoulder. He vaguely recalls a brief, confusing conversation with Castiel about something, but he’s mostly asleep when that happens.

He’s slightly less drunk when he wakes up, instead his mouth is dry and he can tell in a few hours he’s going to have an awful headache. For the moment though it’s still a ways off. Castiel is saying something, the words a low rumble of vibration through the soft silk his face is pressed against. He tries to decipher them as he comes to his senses, but it’s Enochian and all he picks up are a few occasional generic words like ‘you’ and ‘please’.

There’s a hand in his hair. Fingers cradling the back of his skull, a warm thumb rubbing back and forth in a gentle little motion. He’s not felt a touch like it since he caught a winter chill and spent a week abed at Singer’s Hold and Lady Ellen nursed him better.

Except his aunt didn’t get into his bed and wrap her arms around him and that is definitely an arm over his shoulders, and that’s the rise and fall of someone’s chest under his hand and he can hear their breathing where he’s got his face pressed into their side.

“Cas?” he croaks in confusion.

The hand in his hair stills.

Blinking sleep out of his eyes Dean lifts his head and takes in the situation in confusion as his head spins a little from the wine. He’s lying on his stomach pressed up against Castiel with an arm flung over him.

“Dean,” Castiel returns evenly, looking down at him owlishly in the dark.

Dean pushes himself up as he tries to straighten out what’s happening in his sleepy, wine-dulled mind, a flush already burning his cheeks. A blanket slips off his shoulder and Castiel follows the fall of the wool with his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles awkwardly, shifting away to put some room between them.

“I believe you were cold,” Castiel says, voice as calm and even as ever. “It is no matter.”

Dean nods and looks around so he doesn’t have to look at Castiel. For all that they’ve lain together repeatedly, this seems… different and it makes Dean uncomfortable. Trying to dismiss his uneasiness, he peers out through the hangings and to the river beyond. It’s still dark, but it’s quieter now. The lights of the other boats wink out across the water, bunched up closer together than earlier, but there’s only soft murmuring and quiet music in the air now. On the banks Dean can make out fields and the occasional dark smudge of a tall Edenish building. He thinks they are passing the farmland just outside the city.

“We will be at back soon," Castiel tells him, pointing ahead. “I believe that shadow is the Eastern Water Gate.”

Dean peers into the darkness ahead. There’s a blank shape ahead with a few distant lights across the top and he thinks Cas is probably right. Stifling a yawn, he pulls a blanket up around his shoulders. It’s cold. He almost wishes he was still asleep and pressed up warm and oblivious against Castiel.

The journey through the sleeping city is peaceful and swift. The sky has not yet lightened with dawn before they are back at the docks they departed from the day before. Blearily Dean falls into step with Castiel. There is a brief carriage ride back to the palace, and then they are making their way through the silent halls towards the north wing and their respective apartments.

For one horrible moment Dean thinks Castiel intends to accompany him to his chamber and his bed, but thankfully the king seems as tired as he, and they exchange brief pleasantries and go their separate ways.

Dean’s fingers feel thick and clumsy as he undresses, and knowing he will feel the wine when he wakes, he drinks a full jug of water and takes the time to wash himself thoroughly before falling into bed. Dawn is spreading over The Shining City of Zion, making the silver atop her towers glint brightly through the view out Dean’s window.

The _paracleda_ is finally over.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean wakes to bright light, a pounding head and a mouth that tastes like rotting fruit.

There is a stale breakfast sitting out for him, hours old. After relieving himself, scraping his teeth and rinsing his mouth repeatedly with mint vinegar, Dean sits and stares at the food.

He could eat. As much as he wanted. Castiel will not be visiting his bed for a few days and he may give his hunger full rein. Except the wine has curdled his stomach and everything looks awful. He ends up drinking tepid, over brewed tea and gnawing on a cold biscuit smeared with butter. He then decides that it is too early to be up promptly goes back to bed.

The servants who bring him his midday meal wake him with their shuffling and rattling plates, but he just rolls over and ignores them. When he wakes next it is late afternoon judging from the light and he feels much less like he might die. The sight of the wine set out with his luncheon has him swallowing back a wave of sickness however. He does not think he will be able to face any Edenish red for a few days.

When he finally emerges from his chamber, so late it is nearly time for the evening meal, he finds a bright-eyed Benny and a pale Kevin on his door.

“Good evening your highness!” his friend crows. “How did you enjoy the boat ride?”

Dean shrugs. “It wasn’t bad. I napped a lot and drank too much wine.” He frowns as a memory hits him. “Did Victor get _married_?”

Benny grins enormously. “That he did! I tell you, I thought I had the bad end of the stick, stuck guarding the King and not able to touch a drop, but I certainly had a very entertaining evening. King John marrying Victor to that Edenish woman in all the silk, Christian trying to learn that northern dance with all the jumping and falling flat on his face repeatedly, Garth showing that boy his stocking--."

Kevin groans loudly and rubs at his face, interrupting him. “ _Stop talking so loudly.”_

Benny claps the other rídend on the shoulder. “And course Thegn Kevin here had a good time too,” he continues. “Had a drinking contest with some Edenish knights. Did Wessex proud he did, before he fell overboard and nearly downed.”

Dean smirks at the younger guard. “You can’t swim Kevin,” he reminds him.

Kevin glares. “ _Thank you,_ ” he hisses. “I’m _aware._ ”

Benny sends Dean a sly look. “And you Prince Dean, were, to quote some Edenish ladies who spent the evening gossiping about you and king - _adorable_.”

Dean frowns. He doesn’t remember making a fool of himself. But he did drink a lot, so he could have forgotten some awful embarrassment. The way Benny is grinning seems to imply as much. “What?” he asks apprehensively.

“You were all curled up beside the king like gangly pup,” Benny says, tone light and teasing. “He kept looking at you like a lovelorn maiden and patting your hair when you weren’t paying attention.”

Dean remembers something a little like that on the boat ride home, grabbing at Castiel in his sleep and a gentle hand on his head, but he’s fairly certain that there hadn’t been any of that at the picnic so he just rolls his eyes and ignores Benny.

He heads down to the stables, something approaching a spring in his step, despite his stiffness. He hasn’t tended Impala since his arrival and he misses his horse. Even when he was staying in Winchester or Singer’s Hold, Dean has always cared for her himself, and he feels guilty that he hasn’t been doing so. It’s been nearly a week.

She whinnies in greeting as he approaches and he feeds her some fruit taken from his lunch board and spends a little while just stroking and talking to her softly. Her coat shines, her stall is clean and her water fresh, so he is relieved that she has at least been well cared for in his absence.

He’s still sore – now that the numbing excess of the previous day has worn off he can feel every twinge and ache – but he thinks he could ride her in a day or two. The thought makes his fingers itch with anticipation. He wants to saddle her and take her out now. Explore the palace grounds and city beyond . Instead he startles a few stable boys by walking into the tack room and finding a brush.

They bow at him and chatter in nervous Enochian, but he waves them off and spends a little while grooming Impala, even though her coat doesn’t really need the attention. Benny takes advantage of the situation and likewise looks over his horse, but Kevin just leans against Impala’s stall and watches the proceedings blearily, burping queasily into his fist periodically and quietly begging [Ár ](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eir)to deliver him from his agony. It is a pleasant enough way to pass the afternoon and soon it is time to return to the palace for the evening meal.

Dean had thought with the end of the paracleda festivities all the constant feasting would also be at an end, but the High Hall is packed, the musicians still play, and the food is as lavish as ever. His stomach is still uneasy from the wine, but he eats far more than he has done in several days. He is midway through a generous wedge of pheasant baked in pastry when he learns the reason for the continued extravagance.

“Come Yule you will need to send your riders through the eastern pass,” Castiel is telling his father. “The western freezes over early.”

“And the Eastern stays open?” King John asks. “I had heard it also ices over.”

“Very rarely are the winter snows heavy enough to block it,” Castiel replies. “It has only happened twice in my lifetime.”

Dean’s father nods. “I shall send word when all is in readiness. But we must keep such plans to a minimum, Crowley has spies everywhere.”

Castiel shrugs. “He knows what is coming, we have hardly made a secret out of our alliance. He is outnumbered and out-matched. As long as the particulars remain a surprise to him, I do not see the war lasting past midsummer.”

“We must first make it to spring,” King John replies darkly. “He’s raiding across our borders twice as often. My rídend are being run ragged chasing them up and down the hills.”

Dean swallows the morsel of food in his mouth and turns to listen at that. He has not heard news of his uncle or the border since he rode out at his father’s summons.

“He tests your men while you are away,” Castiel says. “Once you are back in Wessex I suspect his raiders will return to their usual skulking.”

King John just hums, not sounding entirely convined.

Castiel gives him a considering look. “You could take a garrison of knights with you,” he says. “There is always one at the ready at the barracks. They could be ready to ride out with you on the morrow if I had one of my captains muster them now.”

Dean drops his fork and both his father and Castiel turn at the clatter. “You’re leaving tomorrow?” he blurts out in shock.

Castiel frowns but King John just nods. “Yes,” he says, and something of Dean’s feelings upon the matter must show because he adds “You may keep two of your rídend with you,” as if in consolation.

Dean is unaware of standing, but he is suddenly making his way through the High Hall and into the maze of the palace corridors. His feet guide him, taking turns at random, until he eventually ends up back at the stables. The long rows of stalls are dark and quiet save the murmuring of the horses within, but Dean remembers exactly where Impala is and makes his way to her unerringly.

She whickers and nudges at him in greeting as he opens the gate and steps into her stall. The straw is soft underneath him when he sits in the corner, and the smells of horse and oats and leather are familiar and comforting.

There are tears stinging behind his eyes and Dean hates his own weakness. He _knew_ his father would not stay, that he would be left here amidst the Edenish, expected to live out his days being a good consort to Castiel. Give him heirs and sit beside him at feasts and tourneys and strange Christian festivals. Wear silk and keep his hair cut short. Grow soft and weak and _useless_.

From the moment his father placed his hand in Castiel’s, Dean has known these things, and he knows he will do them, but… but he doesn’t _want to._ He wants to saddle Impala and ride away. His uncle would take him in, he is sure of it. He could ride south to Singer’s Hold and his father would disown him and there would be more unrest between the King and Uncle Robert and most likely Castiel would hold the treaty with Wessex to be broken and Crowley would remain a looming threat over their heads - but Dean would be safe.

He would not have to let anyone into his bed. Would not have to stifle his cries and press his face into the mattress when Castiel fucks him.

For a few minutes he daydreams, imagines how he would do such a thing. He would need food and warm clothes, his sword and his armor. He’d return to his room and then slip out. Benny would come with him and with his help he’d be able to give the other rídend guarding him the slip. Then they’d come to the stables when it was deserted like now, ready their horses and be gone before anyone even noticed. Avoiding the main roads they would head south until they were safely back in Wessex, and then they’d make for Singer’s Hold.

His father would send riders after him, would try and catch him so he could be sent back to his husband, but Dean and Benny would be able to keep ahead of them.

And then when they arrived at Singer’s Hold his uncle would yell and huff, but he would still take them into his household and protect them. Dean would swear himself to him, be Lord Robert’s  thegn instead of his prince, and he would never have to see Castiel or Eden ever again.

Of course he’d probably never see Winchester either and his father would keep Sam from him. And punish his uncle however he could. Fine him, shun him, perhaps even take his lands. It could be final straw in their contentious relationship, the thing that throws Wessex into civil war. And Crowley would use that unrest to muster an army no doubt.

The foolish fantasies peter out and Dean sits slumped against the stall, Impala a warm steady presence above him. He would never do something so selfish, not even if he were married to Crowley himself. He will be a good husband to Castiel and Wessex and Eden will defeat Crowley and Perdition once and for all. He will grow old here and his children will worship a strange god and speak Enochian not Saxon, but he will see Sam again someday and no one will suffer on his behalf.

And it is not as if Castiel is a _bad_ husband. In truth Dean is lucky in the match. He will never rule Wessex, but a son of his will be king of Eden someday. And Sam will make a good king when their father dies.

Despite all this, Dean cannot bring himself to stand, to get up and go back inside before he is missed. To apologize to Castiel for his abrupt departure. To say his farewells to father. After doing those things he would have to retire to his chamber and he cannot bear the thought of lying in that bed. Castiel had said he would not lie with him until he healed, but they have not spoken of it since and he hadn’t taken Dean yesterday, so perhaps he will come and claim his rights anyway.

Dean lingers, stays huddled in the straw. In the dark with only the quiet shuffling of the horses around him, it is easy to pretend he never rode North at all, that the last week has been a dream and he is in the drafty old stables at Singer’s Hold.

He is awoken hours later, cramped and cold, by a hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

“Dean.”

He starts awake, tensing to defend himself – but it is his father.

Dean looks around in confusion, surprised to find himself curled up in the corner of Impala’s stall. John stares down at him with an unreadable expression on his face. “I… fell asleep,” Dean tells him stupidly.

His father raises an eyebrow. “I can see that,” he replies dryly.

Dean remembers in a flash the feast and his childish departure. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I behaved foolishly.”

“In sleeping in the stables with your horse when you have a soft bed in a palace waiting for you? Yes I’d say that’s foolish.”

“Did I offend the king?” Dean asks hesitantly.

“No,” his father says with a shake of his head. “I told your husband I’d not had a chance to tell you of my departure and he was understanding.” He pauses, gives Dean an odd look. “He seems quite fond of you, and he’s a decent man, for a heathen.” He reaches down and pulls Dean to his feet.

Dean brushes the straw from his clothes and tries to think of something to say. There is so much that has been left unsaid between them that he doesn’t know where to start, or if he even should.

“I’ve a letter for you,” his father offers gruffly, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out some parchment. “Well, two. One from your brother and another from your uncle.”

Dean perks up, forgetting for a moment to be awkward and angry and eyes the paper greedily. His father passes the small stack over and Dean restrains the urge to tear them open straight away.

“If you write quickly, I’ll take back something to them in reply,” John offers warily. “We ride in an hour.”

“Yes, thank you,” Dean agrees immediately, patting Impala and climbing out of her stall. “I’ll go write to them now!”

His father looks faintly amused. “Bring them to me at the main gate,” he tells Dean. “Oh, and let your rídend know who is to stay with you. I’d recommend Benedickt and Victor, since the first will likely stay even if you order him to leave, and the second was fool enough to marry an Edenishwoman.”

Dean nods then turns and makes his way at jog back into the palace. It’s still early – just past dawn - and there are only servants around so he doesn’t bother trying to look dignified and more or less runs back to his chambers, ignoring the twinges of pain the jarring movement brings him.

Christian and Victor are on his door and both give him curious looks when he appears breathless in front of them. Ignoring Christian Dean grabs at Victor’s shoulder as he catches his breath. “You and Benny are to stay with me when the King rides. Let the other rídend know?”

Victor nods. “Very good aetheling,” he replies formally. “It would be my honor to remain at your side.”

Dean waves him off and ducks inside. He has a half penned letter to Sam that he can add to, but he hasn’t even started anything to his uncle, and that one will require additional greetings for the Ladies Jo and Ellen. He’s not sure if he should try and read their letters first, or just write to them blind so he can savor them later.

“Where have you been?”

Dean’s head snaps up at the unexpected voice. Castiel stands near the window, face pensive, still in the long dark tunic he’d been wearing the night before. Dean flounders, at a complete loss as to how to respond. “The stables?” he replies in confusion. “I… what are you doing in here?”

Castiel sniffs. “I was… concerned _,_ ” he says stiffly.

“I’m sorry,” Dean blurts. “I wasn’t thinking. I just, I didn’t realize my father would be leaving so soon and… and I was still feeling all that wine and I… behaved poorly.”

“You left the palace alone,” Castiel says. “Unguarded.” He gives Dean a look like this last was particularly unbelievable.

“I was just at the stables…”

“Where you _were_ is irrelevant,” Castiel snaps, which doesn’t make very much sense since it seems to be the very thing they are discussing. “Your father seemed unconcerned, but I do not think he or you, understand the full gravity your situation at court.”

Dean frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“I have told you that the match between us was not met with enthusiasm from all.”

Dean doesn’t doubt that. He’s one of the unenthusiastic himself. “And?” he prompts.

“There are those at court who would do you harm if the opportunity arose.”

“Why?” Dean asks dumbly.

“Because they see you as a heathen sullying a noble bloodline,” Castiel tells him bluntly. “That any heir you give me will be tainted by your pagan blood.”

Dean purses his lips in irritation. “They _do_ remember that the Angles were just as ‘barbaric’ as us don’t they?” he asks. “That all your ancestors were pagans? Your blood’s already well and truly sullied.”

“I did not say they were reasonable,” Castiel says. “Or that I agreed with their sentiments, I am telling you that they are a threat.”

Dean sighs and pushes his annoyance away. “Okay. Well, thank you for your concern,” he manages in an even enough tone.

Castiel stares at him for a moment, just long enough for Dean to feel uncomfortable. “I am glad my fears for your safety were unfounded,” he says finally.

Dean looks down at the letters in his hand and nods. “I’ll ah, make sure I have my guards with me from now on,” he tells him. “Even in the stables.”

“Good,” Castiel says. “I imagine you have business to attend to before you father departs.”

Dean hums in agreement. “Yes. Some letters I need to write.”

Castiel glances at the bundle of parchment in his hand. “I will leave you then. Good day.”

The entire exchange is odd but Dean’s quickly distracted by finishing Sam’s letter and writing something for the Singers. He keeps both fairly positive, if pragmatic. He tells Sam about Eden and the city, boring stuff that his scholarly little brother will be interested in, like what the buildings look like and how the servants speak Latin and not Enochian, and shares a couple of the meagre amusing exchanges he’s had with Castiel so that his brother won’t think he’s married to a monster and in need of rescue or something. He doesn’t bother with such elaborate subterfuge with his uncle, just tells him that he’s fine and that Benny and Victor will be staying with him so he’ll have to run his own campaigns for the foreseeable future.

The palace is more lively when he makes his way down to the gate to farewell his father and the West Saxon thegn, but it’s still early and the only courtiers out and about seem to have arisen especially to watch the southerners depart and are all hanging around the entrance hall gawping.

King John has ditched the rich tunics he’s been favoring during his stay and is wearing more subdued Saxon styles once more. He takes the two folded sheafs of parchment Dean passes him and tucks them away without comment.

“Safe travels,” Dean tells him, for lack of anything better.

His father nods, the expression on his face as tongue-tied as Dean himself feels. For a moment he just stares and Dean wills him to say something. _Anything,_ but his father just clasps his shoulder and squeezes the muscle there once in brief pressure, giving Dean a look he can’t interpret, and then nods at him before turning and walking to where his horse waits saddled and ready.

The thegn mount up, following his lead. King John turns and says something to the figure beside him – _Christian,_ Dean notes with something black and jealous twisting his guts – and then raises a hand in farewell to someone off to Dean’s right. He turns and there is Castiel, dressed in a fresh tunic, returning the gesture solemnly.

King John calls out to his thegn and then turns his horse in a circle to lead them out. Behind him the men come alive as one and they peel out of the gate like a great coiled snake in a clattering storm of hooves, clinking shields and rattling armor. A few rap their fists to their chests in salute as they pass Dean, silently bidding him farewell, and he feels as if he is being torn in half, Dean of Wessex riding away with the Thegn of West Saxon and leaving some shade wearing his face staring after them.

He turns and retreats into the perfumed halls of the strange palace that is his home now before they can all pass under the great stone gate. Minutes later, from his room, he stares out his window and strains his eyes for the glint of morning sun off spear and shield as they ride away through the city below.

There is a horrible ache deep in his chest.

If he was a child he thinks he might cry.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean reads his letters slowly and carefully, savoring each word. Sam’s is long - two letters in fact. The first is dated prior to Dean’s departure from the border and contains the usual sorts of things – complaints about annoying cousins, talk of what his tutors are teaching him and updates on his horse Charger and his dog Bones – but the second half was clearly written after Sam had been told that Dean was being married to Castiel. Dean reads over the lines with an uncomfortable lump in his throat. His brother’s anger, the _rage_ Dean can detect in his hurried scrawl is useless, utterly pointless, but it soothes that bitter ache of betrayal he’s been trying to ignore ever since he realized what his father had done.

Sam’s anger on his behalf is vindicating, but at the same time Dean is glad that the letter his father is carrying back south to him is reassuring. He doesn’t want his brother fighting with their father out of a misguided sense of loyalty to him. Hopefully Sam’s fears on his behalf will be calmed by what Dean’s letter and what the returning thegn will be able to tell him of the marriage. Sam will worry, he _always_ worries, and it is unlikely he will forgive John his secrecy any time soon, but he’s smart and he’ll be able to figure out from what Kevin and Garth tell him that Castiel is decent and that Dean’s reassurances in his letter aren’t lies. Dean hopes it’s enough.

Were their situations reversed he’d be fretting himself half to death worrying about Sam. He’d probably already have ridden north.

His uncle’s letter is far more restrained. There is some talk about the latest border skirmishes and Lady Jo’s most recent escapades and then there is a short, awkward passage concerning the treaty and Dean’s marriage. There’s a gruff _almost_ apology – talk of being sworn to secrecy by the King and complaints about John’s stubbornness – some references to Edenish knights and battle strategy, and then the assurance that his uncle is certain that Dean will do well in Eden as the Northern king’s consort since he’s undoubtedly the friendliest out of their family, and that Lady Ellen expects word from him detailing the outlandish customs of the court.

Dean knows his aunt well enough to read between the lines. She isn’t one for finery or ceremony. She just wants Dean to write and be reassured that he is well. It is hardly a declaration of motherly outrage on his behalf, but it soothes some small ache inside that he is at least being thought of.

He is grateful beyond measure for the letters, but at the same time there is a finality to them, they seem to mark an ending. There is no disguising the fact that they were both penned more or less as goodbyes. Gods know when _– if -_  Dean will see any of them again. His cheer fades away to nothing once more as he folds them carefully and puts them in one of the empty drawers of the writing desk for safe keeping.

He looks around the room, _his_ room for a long moment.

It doesn’t feel like it’s his, like it’s home. It feels like a stranger’s guest bed. Travelling chests are still pushed against the walls and his armor and weapons are stacked haphazardly in one corner. Dean calls for servants to unpack his things entirely and find a stand for his gear. With the chests gone the room feels larger, but everything is slightly off. The heavy drapes around the bed and the high plastered ceiling painted with Edenish designs look odd against the saxon tapestries and carpets and the heavy furniture. Even the stand they drape his armor over is a strange thing suited to the heavy plate they favor.

It still doesn’t feel like his, like the place he will rest his head for the rest of his life, but he supposes that will come with time.

The first evening meal in the High Hall after his father’s departure is strange. The food is still rich, but the folk at the lower tables are dining on dark bread, thick joints of meat and stew instead of baked trout and spiced capon like they had been the night before. Castiel makes no appearance.

“He hardly ever eats in the hall,” Anael tells him with a roll of her eyes. “I’m so glad I have you for company now.” As she speaks her eyes dart to where Sir Zachariah sits on her other side, smiling one of his awful smiles, his eyes calculating. Next to him his husband Inais is as quiet as ever, giving his soup his undivided attention. Dean knows he is Anael and Castiel’s cousin, but he sees almost no resemblance between them and the pale, silent Inais. Then again the poor boy is married to _Zachariah._

Again Dean wonders at Castiel for allowing such an odious match for his own kin. He could not imagine marrying Gwen or Jo off to such a man. Although Christian perhaps…

After the meal Anael takes Dean by the arm. “Now that the paracleda is over, I can keep you to myself for a while,” she tells him with a smile. Her brow furrows in thought and she chews at her lip for a moment, bony little hand gripping Dean firmly around the wrist, like she’s trying to decide what to do with him and is worried he will run away. “Do you want to see the observatory?” she asks a little breathlessly, like she’s anxious Dean won’t like her suggestion. “Father had a Moorish glass ordered when I was little,” she continues rapidly. “Have you ever seen one?”

When Dean curiously admits that he has not, she relaxes a little, relieved by his response, and their activities for the evening are apparently settled. The observatory is in the highest tower in the southern wing and the view of the night sky and the lights of the city spread below them is already impressive without the glass. It’s like standing on a cliff top. There are strong castles and fine mead-halls a plenty in Wessex, but precious few towers of such height. Victor seems to enjoy the view, but Benny goes very pale and eyes the turrets warily, as if he expects to be pushed over the side or blown off by a gust of wind or something.

An older man with ink-stained fingers, one of Anna’s tutors apparently, turns some cranks and pulls on some levers and a strange contraption rises out of the floor, or roof rather, to point at an angle at the night sky. Under Anael’s instruction Dean spends a while looking at stars that she has strange Edenish names for. The way tiny pinpricks of light too small to see come alive in between the brighter familiar ones is intriguing. After they grow bored of looking at stars in the glass, they point it at the windows of the eastern range of the palace and spy on the lords and ladies over there. They can make out little save silhouettes, but Anael seems to find the idea of spying very thrilling and laughs a lot and provides outlandish commentary to what they observe. At one point they come across Castiel talking to some lord or another and Dean feels an odd thrill as he recognizes his profile.

When even spying through windows loses its charm, they spend a while comparing constellations they recognize and the stories behind them since it seems to Dean that Anael is in no rush to retire to bed. Dean’s are far more entertaining. The Edenish ones Anael traces with her pointed finger all seem to be boring things like plowmen and farmers. The ones Dean points out are heroes and monsters and gods. All of which have much better tales behind them than goat herders or loaves of bread.

Benny and Victor volunteer several of their own to the conversation, and Anael hangs on their every word. It is plain that she finds their ‘heathen’ tales intriguing. Dean remembers Castiel’s warnings from their odd encounter that morning and wonders if telling her such things counts as ‘sullying’.

Castiel does not visit his chamber that night and Dean is intensely relieved that it seems he will be honoring their earlier agreement. A weight lifts off his shoulders that he hadn’t even realized was there. He wonders how long exactly he will have to himself before Castiel comes to him again though, and how he will be able to tell when their efforts have actually been successful after that. Pregnancy was hardly a common topic at camp. Rídend and rídereas generally left that to husbands and wives back home - it was not something risked when away on campaign for obvious reasons.

The only time it was brought up was discussions of its _prevention._ Talk of the moon and charms and nettle tea. In fact, from what Dean had heard over the last few years, he should _already_ be pregnant. Gods knew he’d heard men complain countless times how they’d only lain with someone _once_ and then there was a child on the way.

Dean thinks on that when he climbs into bed. In the dark he presses his hands low on his stomach, feeling through the muscle for some hint, some sign of a difference. His skin is warm and smooth, but if anything there is _less_ give, less softness than there had been a week earlier. Not being able to eat properly has cost him what little pelt he had and living on camp rations didn’t leave a man with much to spare in the first place.

Dean knows if he asks Castiel the king will answer, or earnestly seek out such information for him, but the thought is embarrassing. He should _know_ this. Perhaps he will speak of it to Anael. She and her ladies undoubtedly gossip about such things.

***

Dean has three nights of uninterrupted rest before Castiel returns to his chamber. He is still not entirely recovered, still plagued by aches and phantom twinges from deep within, but most of the pain has faded cleanly and he had been able to use the privy properly with only a little stinging. This great improvement has Dean hopeful that now things will be different between them, that it will be like the camp stories and Dean will find, if not pleasure, than at least no great pain when his husband lays with him.

There is more awkwardness to the encounter than usual, as if after just a few nights abstinence the act is new and strange again. It is fairly late and Dean had not known to expect Castiel, so he already abed. After Victor announces him, he hesitates at the foot of the huge bed, one hand fiddling with the drape tied back at the corner.

“You are… recovered?” he asks haltingly.

Dean swallows nervously. “I think so?”

Castiel nods and approaches, his movements grown confident as he pulls at his belt and clothing. Dean forces himself into action, pushing back the covers and rising up on his knees to pull his nightshirt over his head, trying to ignore the untimely return of his nerves. The air is chill on his bare skin but Castiel’s hand is warm where he grips Dean’s shoulder and guides him over onto his stomach. The oil is cold when Castiel’s hands brush against him, but there is no sting when his fingers slide wet and warm between his cheeks and against his opening. Dean relaxes a little into the mattress, still anxious but hopeful. He wants desperately for this to work. When Castiel takes hold of Dean’s hip and guides himself to press against him, at first all Dean feels is blunt pressure and the warmth of his skin against his - no pain at all.

For a moment he holds his breath, thinking that perhaps it really _had_ been just his untried body causing him such pain the week before and that now that he has healed there will be no more of that, but then Castiel enters him, or tries to. He presses into him but slips, his cock sliding down to nudge against the soft skin behind Dean’s balls, sending a jolt of something that might be pleasure or just shock snaking up his spine. The unexpected motion startles a shocked little noise out of him and he hears Castiel swallow, loud in the quiet of the room, and the hand at his hip squeezes tighter for a moment.

Again Castiel presses into him and slips. Dean remains quiet this time, but he feels his dick twitch with interest at the feel of Castiel pressing warm and oil-slick against that strange tender place in-between his legs. Dean is trying to adjust to that unexpected feeling when Castiel presses a spit-slick thumb into him. It burns just a little but the noise that comes out his throat isn’t precisely pained. Castiel fumbles for the oil and Dean feels it wet and cool, tipped directly onto him. It slides over his ass and down his thighs. Trickles strange and thick over his balls and onto the mattress below. He feels his ass flutter and clench around the thumb buried inside him and the odd sensation has his hips shifting a little, rocking back in a tiny confused movement. Then the thumb is gone and Castiel is back, his fingers greasy where they dig into Dean’s hips as he grinds his dick against his opening.

 _Again_ he slips, and this time Castiel groans, the low sound of it making Dean’s skin prickle. Castiel’s breathing has grown harsh even though they have not even started yet, and the way he is so obviously affected, his stoic mask cracked, is perhaps the reason Dean presses back into him when he lines himself up again.

Castiel gasps as he finally catches upon Dean’s entrance and sinks in a little and Dean gasps too but for entirely different reasons. It _hurts._ It hurts just as bad as the first time. Dean tenses in pain, his body tight and unyielding and he pants as Castiel works himself inside, splitting him open anew in short, jerking motions. It seems to take forever, but finally Castiel has buried himself to the hilt and Dean realizes that at some point he has fallen down from where he was leaning on his elbows and instead has his face mashed into his pillow and a hand braced against the carven bedhead.

Castiel is draped over him, his breath loud in Dean’s ear, and for a moment he is still. When he begins to move - short, lurching, _awful,_ movements of his hips that have Dean biting his lip to stifle his cries - he rubs his face against Dean’s neck, stubble rasping on his skin, and moans. Dean struggles to remain silent and restrain the urge to shove Castiel off him. He clutches at the bed head, every muscle in his body locked up, and pants into the pillow, eyes watering and heart racing. Thankfully the king does not last long. A few endless minutes and he is gasping and clutching at Dean’s hips and burying himself deep as he spills his seed.

Dean lies bonelessly beneath him, angry and hurt and frustrated, but uncertain at what exactly. At Castiel for hurting him? Or at himself for not being able to do this one simple thing, this thing men and women have been doing for all eternity, correctly?

If he cannot even do this right… perhaps there is something wrong with him? Some defect hidden inside him. Maybe he is barren and he will never be able to give Castiel an heir and will spend years stuck here beneath him aching and torn and with nothing to show for it until Castiel and all the Northern court despise him.

Castiel sighs and pulls himself up and out of Dean, his body giving with an ugly wet noise. Dean clenches his jaw and Castiel touches him where he is open and raw, inspecting him like a brood mare.

“You have bled,” he says, sounding disappointed, his fingers sliding into Dean wetly. “But only a little.”

Dean hums in vague response, forcing himself not to flinch as Castiel prods at him. Thankfully he removes his fingers after only a moment. “You are very young,” he says at length, thoughtfully. “And… And very… tight,” he adds haltingly, like he’s embarrassed. Dean certainly is. “It may just take a while for your body to adjust.” The room is silent for a minute. Dean can hear Castiel fidgeting, playing with the blanket. When he turns his head to look at him, he’s staring off to one side, frowning in thought, his bottom lip caught in his mouth. Dean suspects that if he was to tell Castiel how much he hurt when they lay together, he would stop. But what then? A doctor prodding at him? Maybe telling Castiel that Dean will never give him the children he needs?

The thought has fear rippling through him. If there is something wrong with him, the consequences could be dire.

No. He will wait. Hopefully he is over-reacting and will catch soon. And if not… he will do nothing to upset Castiel, to make him dissatisfied with his half of the treaty, until Crowley has been dealt with. He cannot jeopardize the alliance by revealing that he is broken, that Castiel has been saddled with a barren consort. They ride out in the thaws, so that is only… months. That is not so long.

“Will I stay here or ride with you in the spring?” he asks, having not really given any thought to it previously, being so caught up in the here and now.

Castiel frowns. “I suppose I assumed you would remain… You will most likely be with child.” He tilts his head. “If you are not I see no reason for you not to accompany me if you wish. As long as you are fit to ride and wield a sword that is.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

Castiel gives him a small smile. “I am aware you are trained in such things Dean,” he says. “Your father told me you had spent years on the border with Lord Robert. I am sure you will be able to demonstrate your skill to my captains should any of them voice any doubts.”

Dean thinks of Edenish knights flailing around in their stupid armor. “Damn right,” he agrees.

Castiel snorts softly then rises and straightens his robes. He lingers beside the bed for a moment, looking down at Dean almost fondly. “Sleep well, Dean.”

Dean sighs into his pillow and lays on his stomach until he cannot bear the sticky messy feeling any longer and then retreats to the garderobe to clean himself up.

In the morning, as expected, he cannot use the privy, despite drinking several cups of very strong northern tea in an effort to loosen his bowels. It stings and burns and he strains for naught. He eyes his breakfast glumly and eats a single piece of bread as slowly as possible to dull his hunger. The sharp-eyed serving woman eyes him closely, lips pursed.

He spends his morning in the stables with Impala, though when Benny suggests a ride he has to make excuses since informing his friend that his ass is too sore is not something he can even begin to contemplate. Anael drags him around other interesting parts of the palace after the midday meal and then he returns to his chambers to dress for dinner, even though Anael tells him with a long suffering sigh that Castiel will probably not be in attendance.

Dean wonders what he does that keeps him so busy and then immediately feels stupid. Castiel is a King no doubt busy ruling his kingdom and preparing for war. He has better things to do than entertain Dean.

He’s changed into a fresh tunic and scrubbed his face clean when he notices the serving woman who usually brings his breakfast, changes his bed linen and stokes his fire in the mornings, the old woman who huffs and gives him pinched looks a lot, is standing in the middle of his room. “Yes?” he asks her in confusion, having to repeat himself since he forgets to speak in Enochian to start with.

She steps forward and holds out a little pot sort of like a butter crock. Dean takes it and looks down at is dubiously. “For… the after,” she tells him in heavily accented Enochian.  Dean has only heard her speak in Latin and it’s plain her Enochian is even worse than Dean’s.

He frowns. “After what?” he asks.

“The _after,”_ she repeats with emphasis.

Dean lifts the lid hoping the contents might shed some light on what’s going on. Inside is a thick greasy looking ointment that smells of mint and something lemony. It’s definitely not butter. “Please - what is this?” he says, or thinks he says. He _really_ needs to work on his Enochian. Get Anael to help him maybe, or even ask Castiel for a tutor…

“The _after!”_ she says, like Dean’s a moron, and then points at the bed. “The after the king!”

Dean suddenly grasps her meaning. He feels his cheeks flush with bright hot embarrassment. The woman huffs in amusement and pats him on the arm, saying something low and not unkind sounding in her native tongue. He snaps the little pottery lid back on the crock. “Thank you,” he says, purely so that she’ll stop talking and go away.

She smiles at him and says something else Dean doesn’t understand, then mercifully, leaves.

Dean puts the pot down on the table. Then wonders if people will know what it is and instead hurries into the garderobe and puts it by the soaps on the washstand, shuffling the glass bottles of weird Edenish lotions and unguents around so it’s hidden from view, and hopefully, disguised.

Castiel makes a brief appearance in the high hall that evening, long enough to make idle conversation with both Anael and Dean and pick at a plate of herbed lamb and odd northern pumpkin, (it’s _purple)_ but then he’s gone again, Sir Zachariah, Lord Uriel, Sir Balthazar and half a dozen other lords and ladies on his heels. Anael looks after him glumly, but then seems to remember she has Dean around to distract her from her brother’s absence, and the rest of the meal passes pleasantly enough.

Much later, after Castiel has come and gone and Dean has cleaned himself up, he dips a finger into the pot of strange smelling ointment and dabs some hesitantly upon his puffy and sore hole. It reminds him a little of the stuff used on rashes and dry itches, but is far more pleasant smelling. He’s not sure it actually does anything, but it helps with the hot burning feeling at least, the dry rub of skin as he walks, and Dean falls asleep a little easier.

The next morning the same women serves him awful tasting tea. It’s bitter and ashy and Dean almost spits it out. She tuts and crowds him into his chair, jabbering away in latin and waving her arms around. After a lot of complicated gesturing he eventually deduces it’s some sort of tea probably meant to help him conceive, or nourish a child maybe. There’s a lot of pointing at the bed and then at Dean, and then belly rubbing. Since his ass feels a little less tender than expected this morning after using her ointment, he decides she might know what she’s talking about and humors her, drinking the full cup of the foul tasting stuff.

She smiles widely at him and pats his arm in a way that is somehow both affectionate and condescending. He’s reminded of his Aunt Ellen. She then more or less forces him to eat a bowl of thick northern oats, pointing and yammering at him angrily every time he tries to push the bowl away. Ointment or not, he’s certain his guts aren’t going to thank him.

Dean visits Impala again for want of something to do and then spends the afternoon in the library where, with both Benny and Victor’s aid, he manages to locate an Enochian to West Saxon lexicon. It’s old and full of veiled insults about barbarians and heathens, but better than nothing. Castiel is absent for the evening meal, but wakes Dean at some ungodly hour while Victor is on guard as Benny sleeps, and takes Dean in a sleepy and distracted manner. Which is unfortunate since it seems an unfocused Castiel takes much longer to finish. By the time he does Dean’s in agony, his back aching from how hard his muscles are tensed and his lip bloody where he’s bitten it.

It falls into a pattern. Dean spends his days bored and idle with no one for company save Benny and Victor who are as bored and idle as he. He spends most of his evenings with Anael and she gives him impromptu lessons in Enochian. Impala’s coat shines, but despite the nosy servant-woman’s ointment, Dean is still in too much pain to ride her. He’d need a stack of pillows on her saddle. After a little while Benny and Victor stop asking, and he knows they exercise their own horses when Dean is otherwise occupied.

Sometimes he and Castiel talk, but for the most part it is awkward exchanges after Castiel has lain with him or polite nothings over meals. Dean composes long letters to his brother in his head that he does not write. He eats enough so he stomach does not gnaw upon itself too badly, but for the most part he pushes his food aside. He cannot spar or ride, so instead he does what small exercise he can in his room, where no one can see him wince and shuffle. It is not enough however and he feels himself weakening, his clothes growing loose. His teeth feel sore and strange in his skull and his bones ache.

Benny and Victor at first tease, but he knows they grow worried at his continued strange behavior. Of course Anael knows no different, has never seen Dean eat three helpings of honeyed apple pie or an entire side of lamb, has no idea how alien it is for a Saxon rídend to go weeks without riding his horse or lifting a spear. And Castiel pays Dean so little attention outside those hurried visits to his bedchamber that Dean could spend his days embroidering and playing the lute and he’d think nothing of it.

The only person who seems to notice is the old Edenish servant woman, Missouri. She makes Dean eat something each morning, going so far as to slap at his hand with a wooden serving spoon if he is too argumentative with her. And the tea she makes him drink seems to get worse and worse tasting. Periodically Dean prods at his stomach, hoping and dreading he will notice some change, some sign that the king’s seed has caught, but there is nothing. As days turn into weeks he becomes more and more convinced that he is barren, that there will never be a child.

Every few days Castiel will ask him as he lays shaking and spent, if he is with child yet, and even when he does not ask Dean sees him looking at his stomach after they are done, gauging. Dean wonders how long it will be before the king starts questioning him, starts to suspect the truth. The thought fills him with blind panic. Failing in this, being sent home to his father in shame and the alliance between Wessex and Eden faltering makes his blood freeze in his veins.

He prays quietly to Frige after Castiel leaves his bed in the evening and makes offerings of meat and wine to her every Frigedaeg at the old crumbling shrine out in the palace grounds, begging for her assistance in conceiving. He even considers praying to Castiel’s god in the palace chapel, or the grand Cathedral in the city, but he can’t quite bring himself to.

The leaves turn and Zion is painted in yellows and browns from Dean’s window, and then the trees are bare and the air turns chill, as cold as deep winter in Winchester thought the season has only just turned. Dean is cold all the time. He takes to wearing two or three tunics atop one another – they are loose enough that he can do so now – and leggings beneath his trousers. With his furs atop he is almost warm, but soon even the walk down to the stables to visit Impala is too cold and exhausting and Dean finds it harder and harder to drag himself from his bed. Huddled beneath the covers with the fire banked and his furs thrown on top, he is something approaching comfortable.

His teeth ache and the faint taste of blood lingers in his mouth. He makes himself eat more, but he is so sore, his guts so churned, that to pass anything is an agonizing struggle. And he is barely hungry anymore anyway, so it does not seem worth it.

Benny and Victor knock on his door and call out to him occasionally, but as long as he mumbles something in response, they leave him be when tells them to.

By the time winter hangs over their heads in full, Dean only leaves his bed for the evening meal and to visit with Anael. She tells him he is looking too thin and needs to eat more, but she herself is usually thickly bundled and does not begrudge Dean his furs. With her help his Enochian improves greatly until they hold most conversations in it. She smiles a lot and tells him his accent is charming.

Then Castiel is called away for a week, off visiting with his Aunt on some matter of the marshalling of the Edenish knights and bowmen from her estates. Dean eats ravenously, trying to regain what strength he can in his husband’s absence.

Princess Anael comments upon the change on the second night of her brother’s absence. “You have a sudden appetite Dean,” she tells him as he finishes a second helping of some Edenish pastry filled with beef, thick gravy and barley. There is an excited little smile lingering on her lips and Dean’s heart sinks as he realizes what she thinking.

“No, I’m not…” he starts.

But she waves a hand to silence him. “Oh I don’t mean to pry, I am sure if I am to be an aunt you will tell me.”

Dean nods. “Of course.”

“You should try the trout,” she tells him, pointing at a silver platter. “Cook does a crumb with long pepper and sumac that’s delicious.”

It’s good - tart and lemony - even if like everything the Edenish eat, it seems to have too many spices on it. Dean wonders how much silver Castiel must spend keeping the kitchen stocked in sumac and pepper. Back south, even in Winchester – a rich city - most spices were kept for medicines or special feasts. Not used liberally in even the most simple meal.

Dean is stuffed to bursting by the time the sweet dishes are served, but given free rein he finds himself a glutton and he has grown very fond of Edenish fruit tarts sweet with honey and nutmeg. By the time he finishes he’s so full he thinks he might be sick, and begs off visiting with Anael to return to his chamber and sleep it off.

The next morning Missouri lets him drink blessedly normal tea and he puts away as much thick bacon, hearthcakes and oats as he can. “You make yourself ill prince,” Missouri admonishes him in her thick Enochian, but she is smiling. Dean just grins at her and drinks more tea. Food and sleep have done wonders for him already. His teeth don’t feel too big in his mouth and his joints don’t ache.

After his enormous breakfast Dean feels like he needs to go _do_ something, and since he’s not limping or feeling faint, he heads down to the stables intending to actually _ride_ his horse for a change.

When he starts saddling her Benny and Victor seem shocked. Dean glances at them over Impala’s withers. “Well?” he prompts.

His rídend scramble to rub down and saddle their own mounts while Dean finishes with Impala. She wickers and shifts impatiently, like she is as eager to get out of the stables as he. “I’m sorry baby,” he tells her softly. “I know you’ve only had stable boys riding you for months now.” He pats at her and she nuzzles against him, nose velvety soft.

There is some protesting from unused muscles and a twinge or two from his ass, but Dean pulls himself into the saddle easily enough. Shifting around he gets comfortable, feeling a surge of excitement. Unable to resist he winks at Benny and then nudges Impala straight into a canter down the center aisle of the stables. A boy mucking out stalls cries out and falls into a raked pile of hay and horseshit and Victor yells out something from behind him, but Dean just laughs and urges Impala on.

A few servants scatter before him as he races across the flagged courtyard and towards the main gate. Behind him he hears his rídend cursing and the clatter of their horses’ hooves against stone. The Edenish guards at the Palace gatehouse stare as he passes, only one remembering to salute.

It is mid-morning and the streets of Zion are bustling with carts, carriages, horses and crowds on foot.

Dean picks his route at random, steering Impala off the crowded main roads and onto the quieter ones where he can kick her into a full gallop without the risk of running anyone down. Benny and Victor have stopped calling out but he can hear them clattering behind, trying to catch up. Dean doesn’t know his way around the city. He’s stared out at it from his window, but apart from the carriage ride to the archery field and the trip to the docks during his paracleda months earlier, he’s not passed the palace gates. People stare and yell but he ignores them, enjoying the feel of Impala swift and strong beneath him too much to care about appearing undignified or wild.

He races down a narrow alley that smells of fish and rot and then he’s in a broad marketplace and there are people everywhere and stalls selling all sorts of things – everything from strange Northern vegetables to bright woven linen. A tall stone building with a bell tower looms up on one side, and beside it a gate showing a glimpse of bare trees. Dean weaves Impala between the stalls, slowing and taking care not to knock anyone aside, and then kicks her up into a trot again as they pass the iron gate and into the wooded area beyond. The ground is thick with fallen leaves, brown and slick where frost has thawed, and it is not an overly pretty place, but it seems to stretch out a ways, some sort of wooded park, and Dean whistles and urges Impala into a canter.

Her hooves thunder and the wind is cold and sharp in Dean’s face, but he grins into it, exhilarated despite the chill. The trees thick and thin, skirting behind rows of terraced Edenish houses and shops, crossed with occasional paths and dirt roads, gates like the one Dean entered through leading out onto streets and courtyards. Though the way narrows at times, the trees do not end and Dean rides on and on, growing curious as to where he is headed, what this place is. He spots the palace on the hill, soaring high above off to his left, then it is behind him somewhere, out of sight, and then it is looming up ahead, roof glinting as the sun reaches its zenith, pale stone bleached a pure white by its light.

Impala is lathered and huffing and Dean slows to a walk, letting her choose her own pace. She’s not at the same level of condition she’d been when they arrived. The northern stable boys have been exercising her it’s plain, but she’s accustomed to being ridden near day in day out on the march and then straight into battle.

Benny and Victor are out of breath and unimpressed when they finally catch up with him.

“Pleasing as it is to see you atop a horse again,” Benny grouses. “Was it necessary for us to chase you the whole way round this accursed city?!”

Dean shrugs. “I thought you could use the work out,” he says. “Stuck up in the palace with naught to do save eat rich Northern food and stand around looking pretty.”

Benny huffs. “Says the aetheling that lies abed all day.”

Dean makes himself smile smugly even though Benny’s words serve to remind him that he has only a few days to enjoy like this before Castiel returns and he will be too sore to do much more than hide in his room like a sulking child or wander around the palace in a listless search for something to do. “I can do as I like,” he says.

There is another gate up ahead and they find themselves on the wide king’s road again, not far from the palace gates. Benny and Victor are in better spirits than Dean has seen in a while, and since they are all sweaty and not really fit for the grand high hall, they take some lunch in the lower hall with the servants and guardsmen. Victor drinks too much strong northern wine and ends up getting very descriptive in his talk of his new wife and how very affectionate and amorous she is in the bedroom.

Benny hangs on his every word in amused jealously, but Dean is vaguely uncomfortable. When Victor talks of all the ways his lady brings him pleasure and the things that make her cry out in return, he flushes bright red. It is so completely different to what he and Castiel share in his bed. He finds himself wondering if this was what Castiel’s first marriage to the Lady Daphne had been like, if they pleased one another as Victor and his lady do. The king never seems overly thrilled or excited to lay with Dean. Never kisses or touches him. If he has memories of a wife like Victor’s, then Dean can see why.

An inept Saxon boy with no idea how to please a man would hardly be an Edenish King’s first choice as a bed mate.

“Oh and when she swallows me down--” Victor is saying, “-- I think I have died and gone to heaven.”

Benny sighs dreamily, leaning heavily on his arm and staring off into the distance. “For all their silk dresses and dainty manners,” he says. “These Northern girls are just lusty as the ones back home.”

Victor snorts into his cup. “Has your back recovered from the maid you tumbled in that closet last week?”

“It was she that tumbled _me,_ ” Benny insists with false innocence. “But who am I to deny a lady her fun if she is that way inclined?”

Dean purses his lips. “At least _try_ and keep your dalliances to yourself,” he tells Benny. “If I hear you have been caught with a serving wench in a closet somewhere…”

“Lady Muriel more like,” Victor mutters.

Dean’s eyes widen. _“What!?”_ he hisses, rounding on Benny in disbelief. “You have been fooling with Princess Anael’s _ladies_?!”

Benny hold up his hands in innocence. “No!” There is a pause and he shifts a little in his seat. “Not lad _ies_ ,” he says. “Just the one.” At Dean’s look of disbelief he continues. “Lady Muriel can be very persuasive!” He licks his lips, smiling slyly as his voice lowers suggestively. “And demanding.”

Dean closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. “Benny, I know this is going to very hard for you, but I need you to _not_ create any scandals at Court. That means no serving girls in hall closets or sneaking around with the Princess’s handmaidens.”

Benny pouts. “I’ve been good!”

Victor snorts again and chokes on his wine a little.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Oh I can imagine.”

Benny crosses his arms. “Well it’s fine for you two,” he mutters. “Gorgeous wife with no gag reflex and a bloody _king_ to warm your beds respectively.”

Something must show on Dean’s face at that because the teasing pout instantly slides off Benny’s face, replaced by something both apologetic and angry. At the mention of Castiel Victor’s good mood has soured too and he’s frowning down at his wine cup.

Dean pretends not to notice.


	8. Chapter 8

They ride again the next day.

Victor, who has had most cause to explore the city, leads Dean and Benny around pointing out landmarks with varying amounts of insight, ranging from _‘The tanner’s have their shops down there, it stinks,’_ to _‘That’s not a palace, it’s the merchants guild,’_ and _‘My goodmother lives down there… Let’s go around’._

Some people stare and a few children seem scared by Benny and Victor with their long hair and strange armor, but for the most part when the Edenish notice Dean and his thegn they bow and curtsey and seem excited more than anything else. It’s something of a relief. The crowds had been welcoming enough when Dean had ridden into the city months earlier, but he’d been tossing fistfuls of fresh-minted gold to them at the time and Castiel’s talk of danger at court had him half expecting to be pelted with horse droppings or moldy turnips or something. When he speaks of it to Victor the older man shrugs and tells him apart from the occasional drunken loudmouth he’s found the locals more or less welcoming.

Dean falls asleep with a full stomach aching in a satisfying, wholesome way for a change.

The next day they take food with them and ride out of the city and into the farmlands surrounding. The spring crops have long since been harvested and the winter crops of wheat, rye, barley and oats planted. There are still many men and women out in the fields however, mending fences and digging ditches, hurrying to get as much work done as possible before the able bodied are called to war. The sound of threshing and snatches of song float out of the barns they pass nearby.

They stop near a half frozen brook and make a fire to eat their lunch. It is almost like being back home, reminiscent of the trip from the border to Winchester when Dean’s thegn had counted six instead of two. The trees around them do not look any different from those in Wessex in winter, and there are no odd Edenish buildings or peasants visible to remind Dean of the truth. They ride cross-country, avoiding the roads and villages and Dean forgets for a while that he is married and stuck in a foreign land. When they make their way back to the city in the afternoon though, his heart feels heavy and cold in his chest. As they pass under the gate into the city, Dean has a wild urge to turn Impala and ride far and hard, as far as he can. He doesn’t of course.

Castiel returns a day earlier than expected.

Dean is out riding, again, but he has Anael, Lady Ariel and two Edenish knights of the palace guard with him. Anael rides well, even if she does follow the bizarre Northern custom of siting on her horse _sideways_ , something that strikes Dean as both stupid and rather dangerous. Her cousin at least has the sense to sit her horse properly.

They have passed the city and are riding through the forests that edge the giant’s road past the farmlands to the south when Anael and Lady Ariel, who is in much lighter spirits than usual, start to race. Their guards aren’t amused, and Dean is a little worried about Anael bouncing sideways off her mare, but _she_ seems perfectly confident and he only hesitates a moment before urging Impala into a gallop to catch up.

Anael and Lady Ariel laugh as they lead the others through the skeletal trees of the winter-bare forest, calling out disparaging remarks about the so-called skill of Saxon horsemen over their shoulders. Lady Ariel is yelling out something about Benny and her skill at riding that seems to have little to do with horses and more to do with gossip involving Lady Muriel and Benny and things done in a linen closet when they come across the giant’s road again, climbing up the embankment and onto the wide graveled surface.

Anael calls out excitedly and turns her horse in a tight circle, nearly falling off in her hurry, then starts waving. Dean reins Impala in beside her and looks down the road at the source of her sudden excitement. They have encountered many travelers on the road, but these are not merchants or peasants. A troupe of Edenish knights are riding towards them, armor glinting silver, and pacing a little ahead is a rider with the Royal standard and behind him is the King. They are not yet close enough for Dean to make out Castiel’s face, but he sees his husband’s head tilt a little to one side in a gesture of confusion that has become familiar.

 _“BROTHER!"_ Anael yells, still waving wildly as her guards rein up behind her.

Castiel raises a hand to her in a far more restrained greeting.

It takes less than a minute, but the princess is wiggling and bouncing in her saddle by the time Castiel and his entourage draw level with them. He rides up close, staring from his sister to Dean, over their guards and Lady Ariel and then back to Dean and Anael again.

“This is most unexpected?” he says, his curiosity plain.

“We were out riding!” Anael gushes, though Dean imagines Castiel has already surmised that fact. “I did not think you would be back until tomorrow?”

“We made better time than expected.”

“Oh this is wonderful!” Anael exclaims, turning and reining in next to her brother. “We can all ride back together!” She smiles brightly and Dean tries to paste something suitably excited over his own face.

“It’s very fortuitous,” he agrees.

There is some shuffling as the two parties merge into one, and then they are making their way back to the city, Anael prattling away to Castiel, calling out to Dean and Lady Ariel for confirmation or input to the conversation occasionally, but for the most part happy to have her brother a captive audience for the duration of the journey.

Dean tries to savor the relaxing rock of Impala beneath him as they ride, looking around to take in the countryside as they pass it. Come evening Castiel will be back in his bed and he will not be riding out for gods knew how long. The king looks at him sideways as Anael talks, trying to catch his eye, but Dean pretends not to notice.

He had dressed for riding that morning in a plain southern tunic, trousers and belt. Save the fur cloak he’s not wearing anything remotely Edenish and he certainly isn’t wearing a circlet or any jewels. He’s wearing his short seax at his hip out of habit, but lacking a proper sword, spear or shield, he probably looks plainer even than his thegn. Castiel is no doubt taken aback by that, this reminder that his so-called _consort_ is a little more than a common rídend more accustomed to sleeping with the horses than in a palace.

Conscious of this fact and not wishing to shame Castiel with his un-princely appearance, Dean lets Impala slip back as they pass the city gates and rides behind the king, Anael and Lady Ariel. Sandwiched between Victor and Benny he hopes those they pass as they make their way to the palace will not notice him, or least not be able to see him properly between his two hulking thegn.

The Edenish hand off their horses to attendants in the courtyard and follow the king into the palace. Dean instead sees to Impala himself, rubbing her down and lingering in the stables. Victor and Benny attend their own mounts and then fall into quiet conversation with a few of the stable hands.

Sensing Dean’s subdued mood, they shadow him silently as he makes his way to his chambers to wash and change. He thinks perhaps he will call for a bath. He has ridden out several days in a row and no doubt smells like it. To his shock, he arrives at his chambers to find a royal guard on his door and Castiel awaiting him within.

He looks up at Dean’s entrance, frowning slightly. “I have been waiting,” he says.

Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times. “I didn’t know.”

“I have not seen you ride since your arrival,” Castiel says, eyes skipping down over Dean’s rumpled clothes. “I had almost forgotten you had that great black beast in the stables.”

Dean frowns at the vaguely disparaging reference to Impala. She’s big in a good way. A strong hardy horse as capable of riding on the march for days on end as well as trampling down men in battle. Dean would not trade her for one of the spindly-legged Edenish geldings the knights all seem to favor for all the gold in Winchester.

Castiel crosses to stand before him and gives him a long once over before wrinkling his nose slightly. “You smell like horse,” he says.

Dean’s cheeks burn in a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. “I had thought to bathe the before the evening meal, your _majesty.”_

Castiel’s eyes narrow, considering. After a moment of silence he says; “Take off your clothes.”

“ _What_?” Dean croaks in disbelief.

Castiel frowns. “I will lay with you now,” he tells him, as if that should be obvious.

Dean swallows and huffs a breath out through his nose. For a moment he just glares at Castiel, several sharp retorts to his presumptuous treatment eager on his tongue, but then all those fears start crowding back in and his resistance crumbles, anger draining away until nothing but hollow weariness remains. He lets his belt fall to the floor, his seax clattering in his scabbard, yanks his sweat-damp tunic and undershirt over his head gracelessly, toes off his boots and then starts working upon the fastening to his trousers.

Castiel does not bother removing his own clothes. He guides Dean to the bed with hand on his shoulder and then Dean is face down, ass-up and he doesn’t just smell like a horse, he feels like one. Like a mare waiting to be mounted.

It hurts – of course it hurts – but Dean’s anger is like a low banked flame, a hot coal glowing within him, and he doesn’t let out a single groan or whimper as Castiel fucks him with all the care and finesse of a dog fucking a bitch. Dean is a vessel, a womb to be filled, and a broken one at that. He is not some graceful, smiling, northern Lady like Castiel no doubt desires. He’s a pagan boy who stinks of horse and that’s how Castiel fucks him.

He thinks of Victor’s drunken confessions of the passion he shares with his wife, of how laying with her makes him feel like he’s in paradise.

Thankfully Castiel does not stay for conversation when he’s done, just tells Dean he will see him at the evening meal, pats his hair in an awkward, abortive gesture of forced affection, and then takes his leave.

Dean calls for a bath and despite the sting and ache Castiel has left him with, he sits in it long after the water has cooled, scrubbing at his skin. He grinds his teeth until his jaw aches and twists the washcloth into a tight rope in his hands but it does not calm him. He wants to scream, to throw something, but Missouri is laying out fresh clothes for him and he is not some child free to throw a fit of pique.

Dinner is richer than usual in honor of the King’s return. Dean is hungry after the day’s ride and the rich smells make his stomach feel hollow, but he must pick at his food once more.

Castiel comes to his chambers again after he retires. Dean doesn’t bother saying anything, just strips and lays down on his stomach. It burns and stings, but is not as painful as usual. He is still open and sore from where the king had him earlier. Castiel seems to delight in it, in the way he slides into Dean’s body almost easily, not having to force himself in as usual. It takes a long time. Castiel stretches out atop Dean and slowly works himself to completion, thrusting languid and deep. Dean tries to think of other things.

He remains for a time after. “Anael tells me you have been very hungry these last few days,” he says. “That your spirits have been high…”

Dean sighs into his pillow. “I’m not pregnant,” he blurts, cutting Castiel off. “Well, not as far as I can tell.”

“I see.” Castiel does not sound nearly as disappointed as Dean expected.

He bleeds a little in his sleep and the next morning Missouri’s face is pinched as she changes his bedding. When he uses the privy he notices that the little pot of ointment she gave him has been replaced with another that has an even more astringent herbal scent. It doesn’t seem to do much but it soothes the heat there and helps with the chaffing a little, so he continues using it.

Some change seems to have come over Castiel since his time away and he begins to visit Dean’s chambers during the day on occasion as well as the evening. Dean doesn’t delude himself that this interest has anything to do with him, not really, it’s plain that Castiel just wants Dean to give him an heir as soon as possible.

It’s a sentiment he shares for completely different reasons, so he bears the attention as well as he can and never turns the king away no matter how sore he is. But it takes its toll. He feels open and broken all day and is scared to eat. It hurts to move his bowels, and most days, for all his straining all that he passes is a few dribbles of blood. A month after Castiel’s return it is difficult to walk without limping, each step agony, so he retreats to his bed on a more or less permanent basis.

That is where Castiel finds him, languishing amidst the pillows, half-heartedly reading some tedious Enochian book on the history of Eden, when he comes seeking him one afternoon.

Dean sets his book aside and begins to tug at his clothing, but Castiel stops him with a hesitant hand to his shoulder. “No,” he says. “I didn’t come… for that.”

Dean blinks up at him in confusion. “You have never come for any other reason,” he murmurs without thinking.

Castiel frowns and ignores Dean’s comment. Taking a deep breath he launches into a spiel that sounds rehearsed. “My men are mustering near the Eastern pass into Perdition so they will be ready to ride as soon as the thaws come,” he says. “I will be riding to join the on the morrow.”

Dean nods, his heart sinking. If Castiel is leaving and Dean is _still_ not with child, what will that mean for the treaty?

“Anael is remaining here, but… but I thought perhaps you might accompany me?” Castiel asks him awkwardly. “Anael has spoken of how well you ride and,” he swallows, “there is little here in the palace to divert you. The Castle at Bright’s Pass is older, similar to your keeps in the south and it is warmer there also, so I thought perhaps you would be more comfortable, and you did say you would like to come when we rode out, though I do not know if you still wish that?”

He’s babbling, like he’s embarrassed or something. Dean can’t understand _why_ for the life of him. “You want me to ride south with you?”

Castiel nods. “If you wish to. Obviously if you prefer to remain here in the palace with Anael I am agreeable I merely thought --"

Dean lifts a hand and presses it to Castiel’s hip tapping him to get his attention. “Castiel,” he interrupts. “I would like to come.” The ride will be torturous and it is winter in full now so most likely the journey will be freezing, but Dean _must_ go. He must show Castiel that he is trying, that he is doing all he can to give him his heir. That he is a good husband. That King John has honored his side of the treaty.

Castiel looks almost surprised. “I am glad,” he says. “Your company will be most welcome.”

Missouri takes his departure with poor grace and Anael seems jealous.

Benny and Victor are, of course, thrilled. They seem to think getting Dean on a horse will have him acting like himself again.

The ride is both worse and better than expected. Being on Impala again is a comfort, but the ache and stabs of pain that shoot through him at every slide in the saddle drive him numb and thoughtless. They are accompanied by three garrisons of knights and that number quadrupled in bowmen on foot, men from the city and surrounding estates. Sir Zachariah and a few Edenish lords and Captains are present also, and for the most part Dean rides near Castiel with Benny and Victor, but the King is kept occupied by his lords and speaks to Dean only a little, restraining his attentions to the occasional lingering, uncomfortable look.

Dean is grateful for the king’s distraction because he could offer little in the way of polite conversation when all he can think upon is the pain each step Impala takes sends stabbing up through him. The smell of the evening cooking fires when they make camp make his stomach twist uneasily and he doesn’t even pretend to eat, just tells Castiel he is tired and retires to his tent.

It is small and strange, nothing like the linen tents and silk pavilions Dean has seen so far in Eden. It’s is round and supported by a single pole, and instead of linen or silk, it is thick hide. When Dean pulls back the flap and crawls within, he sees that the fur of the beast remains to ward off further chill. He also realizes that this is not a tent purely for his own use. The pile of furs and pillows in the center is fit for two and he can see the king’s armor and weaponry stacked neatly to one side.

Too tired to care for the time being, Dean crawls under the covers and promptly falls asleep. He is wakened some time later by Castiel, and there is a brief murmured conversation in a mix of West Saxon and Enochian, but Dean’s mind is foggy and Castiel seems to realize how tired he is, because he does not try to lay with him.

When Dean wakes in the cold before dawn, Castiel is snoring softly beside him, his body warm where it presses into him and Dean is _cold_ so he turns on his side and tucks himself into that heat. Castiel smells faintly of the orris root that his servants tuck in with his clothes to keep them fresh. It’s a sweet scent, infinitely preferable to the slight musky odor of the tent and the furs atop their bedding. Dean moves a little so his face is pressed into Castiel’s night shirt breathing in the fresh smell and the king shifts in his sleep. Dean tenses, but all he does is adjust himself and pull Dean closer, clearly as appreciative of his body heat as Dean is of his.

A few hours later Castiel rises and Dean is awoken as he untangles himself. He eats a little breakfast with Castiel, Lord Uriel and the other Edenish noblemen riding with them. Beyond a few greetings no one speaks to him, instead they quietly discuss their progress in Enochian. Dean’s lessons with Anael have paid off – he understands almost everything they say. Only a few terms are new to him - the Enochian words for particular tools or weaponry and other such things as have not come up in conversation with Anael.

There is no Missouri around to feed Dean strange tea, and he finds himself missing her pointed looks as he drains his cup of sweet, _normal_ , tea.

The day’s ride is more comfortable since Castiel had not lain with Dean the night before, and he pays a little more attention to the conversation around him and the countryside they pass through. They are on another of the old gravel roads, wide and straight and dotted with ancient stone markers. The ones people say are [_entisc_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roman_roads_in_Britain#Post-Roman_legacy)– made by giants – something Dean has always had his doubts about though he cannot imagine how such level and hard roads where built if not by magic. It does not snow, but they see it, white on the mountain tops, as they cut between the spurs of the range that marks the border between Eden and Perdition. It is still freezing despite the lack of snow however. Dean has been colder, but only in the deepest dark of winter back home, and from what he overhears, the current weather is considered quite mild for winter and the men are pleased that it’s holding for travel. He huddles in his furs and tries not to imagine how cold it could be tomorrow if this is ‘mild’.

Still saddle sore, but feeling far less tender than the day before, Dean remains with Castiel and his lords for the evening meal, and eats a little of the stew and campfire biscuits they are served. Again they talk mostly of the trek. A cart broke an axel, a mule broke a leg and had to be put down, and a few bowmen and a knight had vanished in the night, deserters run back home. Dean wonders what welcome they will find. A deserter in Wessex was likely to find scorn from even his own mother.

When he gauges he has stayed long enough not to seem like a sulking child avoiding company, Dean retires from the campfire and to the tent. After a quick wash where needed with cold water and freshening his teeth, Dean shucks his clothes and pulls on a sleeping shirt as quickly as possible. It takes forever for the layers of bedding and furs to heat up, and therefore he lies shivering in the dark, not sleeping, for quite some time. Long enough that he is still awake when Castiel comes in and goes through his own ablutions.

Dean watches him from between the blankets. It is strange to see him doing something so… ordinary. To see him take a piece of rough cloth and rub at his teeth to clean them, to spit mint vinegar into a bowl of dirty washing water siting on the mat in front of him. There is nothing regal about Castiel squatting on the floor of a tent and picking at his teeth.

For politeness’s sake Dean shuts his eyes when he’s finished, so Castiel will not know he has been watching. When he pulls back the covers Dean has to resist the urge to open them again because for a long time it seems Castiel hesitates. Cold air curls around Dean where the blankets are lifted, but Castiel does not move to join him and shivering, Dean turns on his side away from him, burrowing into the bedding. A moment later he feels Castiel slide in behind him, finally, except instead of laying down to sleep as he had the night before, he presses in behind Dean, sliding a hand over his hip and down to his belly. Dean’s eyes snap open and he jerks a little before he can stop himself.

He can feel Castiel, _hard,_ pressed flush against his backside.

He swallows dryly. He’d not thought Castiel would want him while they travelled, had _hoped_ he would not for his own comfort. But “Dean?” Castiel murmurs softly, breath tickling his hair.

“Yeah?” Dean asks, trying to sound as sleepy as possible, delaying the inevitable. But it’s not as if he can deny him.

Castiel is silent for a long time, but he’s still right there, pressed up against Dean like a hot brand. “I have been thinking,” he says and Dean waits. “I have been thinking that I would like to kiss you.”

Whatever he had been expecting it is not this and Dean can’t help it, he shifts and turns to look at Castiel over his shoulder.  “You want to kiss me?” he asks in disbelief, surprised both that Castiel would want to and that he would bother asking. Dean is his husband, if Castiel wants to kiss him then he has every right to.

Castiel’s eyes skip down to Dean’s lips and then back up to his eyes. “Yes,” he says.

Dean blinks, finds himself staring at Castiel’s mouth. “Okay.”

He’d expected Castiel to kiss like he fucked, straight to the point, but it isn’t like that at all. Castiel touches Dean’s face - his brow, the soft skin beneath his right eye, the line of his jaw and the rasp of stubble there - and then presses his lips to Dean’s with a softness and care he certainly does not usually show when he touches him.

For a while that is all there is, soft lips clinging to his, a brush, a pull and back again. Timidly, Dean tries to respond, to move his lips against Castiel’s in the same way. He does it for two reasons, the first is that he is terrified of displeasing him, the second is that… that it is _nice._ Castiel pulls him closer so they are on their sides facing one another and his hand slides around Dean’s neck to curl around the back of his skull.

At the first hesitant pass of Castiel’s tongue – wet and warm and shocking – Dean jerks away in surprise. He finds himself staring at Castiel from right up close. His lips are tingling and Castiel’s seem even more pouty than usual and Dean wonders how long exactly they have been kissing for but then Castiel is speaking. “I’m sorry,” he blurts. “We don’t have --"

Except Dean doesn’t want to hear that, he wants to keep Castiel pleased with him, so he scrapes together what little courage he has and kisses him before he can finish his sentence. It is the king’s turn to jolt in shock, although he doesn’t push Dean away, instead he puts his hands on him again and pulls him closer.

This time when Castiel sucks at Dean’s bottom lip and lathes at it with his tongue, Dean stills himself and tries to respond in kind, parting his lips and letting his tongue meet Castiel’s hesitantly. For a moment it is strange, but not unpleasant, and then it is… and then it is very good. His thoughts become muddled and he loses all track of what is going on soon after that. Castiel tastes like mint and his tongue delves into Dean’s mouth like he likes whatever it is he is tasting on him. Probably more mint. His fingers twist in Dean’s short hair, curl around his jaw and tilt his head so he can be kissed deeper.

When Dean fists a hand in Castiel’s night shirt and slides his tongue against his in mimicry, Castiel moans low in his throat and the noise of it, the feel of it vibrating against him sends a warm thrill down Dean’s spine and suddenly Dean is kissing Castiel as much as Castiel is kissing him. They pull at one another, lips and tongues clinging and frantic. When Castiel pushes Dean to his back and presses him down into the bedding, Dean realizes that he’s hard.

He’s hard and aching and so is Castiel and there is only thin cloth between them. It’s hot and strange and mildly terrifying but also good. Very, very good. Dean bucks his hips and Castiel groans against his lips, grinding down in a way that is wonderful but somehow only makes everything worse. They kiss messily, Castiel licking into Dean’s mouth as he rolls his hips in tempting friction. The feel of it, the building heat, makes it hard for Dean to breathe, hard to remember how to behave. He has one hand on Castiel’s hip and is pulling at him with bruising force and there is soft dark hair caught between the fingers of the other. He wants more, wants to pull at that hair so it stings, scrape his nails down Castiel’s skin and then sink his teeth into him. Catch the soft swell of his bottom lip or bite at that tempting curve where his neck meets his shoulder.

Castiel’s hips jerk and the movement has cloth bunching and slipping and Dean gasps as the blunt head of Castiel’s cock presses against his bare skin. It’s wet and warm and Castiel breaks their kiss to groan, rubbing into Dean in a way that shouldn’t feel so… so _much_ but is somehow overwhelming. Dean thinks he whines, or whimpers – some humiliating noise – and then Castiel is reaching between them and fumbling until Dean’s night shirt is shoved up high around his chest. He pulls his lips from Castiel’s for a moment to yank it over his head and then he is naked and so is Castiel and Dean has no idea what they are doing, but he is shaking and his heart is trying to beat out of his chest and when Castiel leans down again and kisses him roughly he moans.

Dean cannot think, can barely breathe, can only gasp into Castiel’s mouth as the strange giddy feelings twist through his body. He’s so hard it almost hurts, the throb of blood where he aches like a second heart beat. He wants to take himself in hand and finish himself, but at the same time he doesn’t want this blissful torture to end.

Desperate for something, _more,_ he rolls his hips, lets his legs bend and lift to cradle Castiel between them.

 _“Dean,_ ” Castiel groans, pulling from their kiss to look down at him with blown eyes, and then he is pressing his mouth to the column of Dean’s neck and the scrape of teeth there, the hot lick of his tongue has Dean arching into him and gasping his name, except it’s too long, too many syllables for his thick tongue and all that comes out is “ _Cas--”._ And Castiel bites, worries at the thin skin under Dean’s jaw, reaches down between them to take Dean in hand and then it’s “Cas-cas-cas--” punched out of him in little gasps, Dean’s mouth incapable of forming any other sound.

He knows he should be doing something, something beyond twisting and panting in Castiel’s arms, but he can’t _think_. His blood is buzzing and all he can focus on is the coiling heat where Castiel is touching him. No one’s ever touched him like this before and it’s so much more intense, so much _more_ than the feel of his own hand. Everywhere his bare skin brushes against Castiel’s seems to tingle with shivery… potential. Like he’s touching more than skin and flesh, like there is something old and deep happening Dean and Castiel that has nothing to do with politics or alliances or duty.

Castiel’s hand is warm and dry, a little too tight, but Dean’s leaking into his fist, his balls tight and heavy as he ruts mindlessly into the rough grip of his fingers. He’s clutching at Castiel, hands running over him feverishly - long line of smooth muscle down his back, bony flare of his hip, soft warm give of his ass – Castiel groans and he rocks into Dean, the wet line of his dick making a home for itself in the soft crease between hip and thigh. Castiel sucks at the skin he’s been biting and heat seems to flare there, blooming under Dean’s skin and suddenly he’s thrashing, fucking up into Castiel’s fist in uneven, mindless jerks, fingers digging into him, pulling him down closer, and then he’s coming, seed pulsing out of him in hot wet spurts that having him moaning low and broken and shivering.

He slumps back into bedding, blinking up at the dim outline of the tent above them, the little hole in the center for the smoke from the brazier to escape and the handful of stars visible there. Castiel is breathing heavily, eyes blown and lustful, and when he kisses Dean it is deep and messy. In his dazed state Dean can’t really reciprocate, but he tries. He can feel his come smearing warm and strange between them. Castiel’s hand when he pulls at Dean’s hip is wet and slippery. “Want you,” he tells Dean, low and cracked, the words breathed more or less into his mouth.

Dean nods dumbly even as his mind starts to awaken and the fog of lust and arousal clears. There is some fumbling, Castiel reaching out of their bedding to noisily knock at things off to the side, but then the sharp scent of _the oil_ catches in Dean’s nostrils and he stiffens, jarred from pleasant lassitude.

Of course. The seed smeared tacky across Dean’s stomach is irrelevant - worthless - but _Castiel’s_ , Castiel’s must not be wasted. Dean tries to straighten out the confusing mess of hurt and embarrassment and resentment he’s feeling. He rolls over onto his stomach for his husband.

Castiel touches him more than usual, slides oil slick hands down Dean’s sides, tracing the slight curve from ribs, to waist, to hips, says “You grow too thin,” before spreading his cheeks and getting him wet. Dean is used to this by now, and he lays pliant and accepting as the cool oil stings, as Castiel takes bruising hold of his hips and forces himself inside. The tearing heat of being split open usually draws no more than a deep breathe or a soft gasp from Dean, but it feels sharper after the sweet blur of pleasure and Dean whimpers.

Castiel groans, breathes his name in response, and then he is moving, long oil-slick undulations that ache and stretch and make Dean shake and bite his lip bloody. Castiel comes with a hand tight in Dean’s hair and his mouth wet and hot at the back of his neck.


	9. Chapter 9

Riding is agony again. It almost feels as if Castiel is still inside him, splitting him open, and every tiny shift in the saddle sends stabbing pains knifing through Dean. They shift to a canter for a while mid-morning, the bowmen jogging to keep up. “Good exercise for them,” Sir Zachariah says, as if he is an authority on such things.

The jarring movement makes Dean light up in pain. By the time they slow back down to a trot he’s pale and sweating and if he’d eaten breakfast is certain he would have lost it.

Sir Zachariah, who has been relegated to the second line owning to the fact that a few of the Edenish Lords currently have Castiel’s attention, and has therefore spent the day riding near Dean and making unwelcome attempts at conversation, notices Dean’s stiffness and sees fit to comment.

“For a Saxon you seem ill at ease in the saddle Prince Dean,” he says in his lisped West Saxon. Dean doesn’t bother replying. Zachariah smirks and makes a soft aside to the two Edenish knights accompanying him in Enochian. _“Or perhaps he’s a little saddle sore from riding the king last night.”_ The knights titter and Dean sees Benny and Victor stiffen out of the corner of his eye. _“Never leaves his bed back at the palace they say, just lays there oiled up and waiting.”_ He smiles at Dean. _“Horny barbarian slut.”_

Dean doesn’t want to draw his sword, he wants to take his shield and beat Zachariah around the head with it until every bone in his face is broken. He hears Victor hissing something at Benny, restraining him no doubt. Dean turns and gives them a quelling look. Benny has a face like thunder and Victor, despite being the responsible one, looks like he’s tempted to throttle Zachariah almost as much.

 _“Can’t say I blame the king of course,”_ Zachariah continues, the words reaching Dean though he tries to ignore them. _“The boy was made to be fucked. Those lips belong wrapped around a cock. If he wasn’t the king’s I’d take a ride myself, get him on his knees and see if all they say about heathens is true. My Inais is a dear boy of course, but so timid--"_

Dean doesn’t think he can listen to anything else without knifing the man, so he kicks Impala into a gallop and rides ahead of the column for a while. Also when he gallops he can rise up a little in the stirrups, holding tight with his thighs and supporting his weight through his legs instead of his backside and it doesn’t hurt so much. He leads Benny and Victor at a fierce pace for a while, long enough that it will be some time before the column catches up, then drops Impala back to a walk.

“That _fucking whore-mouthed cretin_!” is the first thing Benny says.

It makes Dean smile. “He’s a disgusting little creep isn’t he?” he agrees, most of his anger worked out by the ride.

Benny huffs. “The things he was saying! These Edenish have no respect!” He looks from Dean to Victor for their agreement. “Can you imagine one of King John’s Thegn speaking of a consort of his in such a manner? Why, even if your father married a fish maid from the docks or plucked a bed warmer from a whore house no one would dare say such things.” Benny shakes his head. “He insults his own king as much as you.” That fact, that Sir Zachariah was speaking ill against his liege lord, probably seemed just as terrible to Benny as what he said of Dean.

“I think he was testing our Prince,” Victor says thoughtfully. “It was widely gossiped upon when I wed a Northerner, so it is known I’ve been learning her tongue, and you’ve been here months now, talking Enochian with Princess Anael at dinner in the High Hall. And he’s nosy. I’m certain he was aware you knew what he was saying.”

“You think he wanted to provoke me?” Dean asks.

Victor shrugs. “We know there are those who do not approve of Castiel marrying a Saxon. Provoking you to act the barbarian they want to paint you as would aid their cause.”

“But what can they hope to achieve?” Dean wonders. “We have been married months now. There can be no annulment and their Christian god does not let them divorce…”

The answer to that question becomes apparent only a few minutes later. They cross one of the small stone bridges that line the ancient roadways, and round a corner to find themselves in the midst of an ambush. The first arrow misses, a hurried shot taken too quickly, and that is the only reason any of them live. Dean’s shield is up and he has kicked Impala into a gallop in an instant, ingrained reflexes still coming to the fore even after months of disuse. They do not yell out strategies to one another, they fall back on the automatic response of rídend ambushed by Eastern raiders – they ride straight for them at a dead gallop, shields and spears raised.

Rídend do not run.

It is far better to die fighting and be raised to feast in Wōden’s hall than gasp out your last in a ditch with a back filled with arrows. Besides which, the arrows are short recurve shot – quick to draw - and to ride away from them would give them far longer to find their marks. So it is not just foolhardy bravery that has Dean and his thegn raising their voices in battle cries not heard in the north in many years and rounding on their attackers.

There are a dozen, two ranks of archers in dark leather and a knight in plate standing to one side, scruffs of brush arrayed before them to disguise them from the road. Dean is almost offended. He throws his spear, taking one neatly through the throat, rides down another as he draws his sword and then beheads the next before bringing the edge of his shield down hard into the face of a fourth. He spins Impala once, twice, hacking out around him… and then it’s over.

Benny has ridden after the knight and Victor slides off his horse to check the archers sprawled around them.

Two are still alive. The first has one of Benny’s axes buried in his collarbone and the other is lying broken where he was trampled, blood flecking his lips and his breath wheezing. Neither of them will last long.

Victor kneels next to the trampled man. “You were to kill my Prince?” he asks in clear, slow Enochian. The archer nods dumbly. “On whose orders?”

The man grunts. “Needed… the silver.” he mumbles. “Don’t know nothing.”

Victor tries to get him to say more, but the man chokes on blood, eyes wide and terrified, already too far gone to be of any use.

Victor purses his lips and looks up at Dean. Dean nods. His thegn pulls his seax from his waist and buries it neatly up under the bowman’s chin in a smooth blur. The Northerner gurgles and twitches, but then is still.

“The men that vanished the first night of the march,” Dean says. “A knight and some bowmen.”

Victor nods and pulls at the leathers on the man, lifts his short dagger, inspects his bow. “These look like those the king’s men were armed with. This bow is new and well formed.”

There is a pained moan off to one side and both Dean and Victor turn to see the man with Benny’s axe protruding from his shoulder trying to crawl away. Dean nudges Impala into a lazy walk and blocks him off. The man flounders in the leaves, glaring up at him darkly. Dean returns his gaze coolly, taking in the amount of blood slicking his armor and how deep Benny’s axe is buried. “You’re dying,” he tells him in Enochian. “Tell us what you know and your kin will not pay for your treason.”

The man scowls at Dean for a long moment and then tries to spit at him. Dean feels a simmering mix of pity and rage. He does not know this man, this short, dark haired Northerner, but something about him, that look in his eyes, reminds him of Zachariah and dozens of others who have looked at him with scorn and disdain since he arrived in Eden. He finds himself sliding off Impala, his stiffness forgotten for the time being. He tips the man’s head up with his bloody sword, letting the edge scrape against his beard. “How much gold does it take for a Christian to betray his king?” he asks.

The man just glares, but he’s panting, his eyes blown. Dean looks aside to the throwing axe sticking out of him. His chest and arm are saturated, the stink of his blood thick in the air. Drawing back his sword, Dean taps at the haft of the axe with the blade. It barely moves it is notched so deeply in bone and muscle. The man moans and flinches away. Dean plants his foot high on his chest, toes over the hollow of his throat, and shoves him back to the ground. He howls in pain, bucking under Dean’s boot like a pinned insect.

“They squirm and howl just like Crowley’s scum,” Dean tells Victor, still speaking Enochian so the man will overhear. Bending over he replaces his foot with his knee and pulls at the man’s belt, rooting through his meagre belongings until he finds a small purse.  The man hisses and curses as he lifts it and shakes it to hear the coins rattle.

Leaning back Dean passes his sword to Victor and empties out the leather pouch into his hand. When he sees the golden coins he laughs and lifts them so Victor can see. Half a dozen fresh minted Wessex sceattas. “My father’s gold for my head,” he huffs in bitter amusement.

Victor pokes at the meagre handful in Dean’s palm. “An Aetheling of Wessex bought for 5 sceattas,” He pauses and counts the northern silver, “And 8 silver crowns.” He looks over the dead bodies around them. “Twelve of them, plus whatever the knight was paid.” He crosses his arms. “Cheaply bought. I doubt they spent more than a hundred sceattas.” He stares down at the bleeding bowman again. “I’ve spent more on an evening of ale and women when in a generous mood.”

There’s a crash and hooves thundering and then Benny is back, the Edenish knight thrown over his horse, limp and bloody, his helmet gone. Benny whistles jauntily as he dumps his unconscious cargo off next to the other man and hops off his horse. There’s blood on his face but Dean doubts it’s his own. “I’ll be needing that back,” he says, pointing at the axe sticking out of the archer.

Dean rolls his eyes but steps off the bowman and gestures towards him in welcome. Benny flashes a grin and bends down to yank it out of the man’s shoulder. He screams and blood gouts freely from the wound. He clutches at it trying to steam the bleeding as he scrambles in the leaves to get away, but the cut it too deep and he succumbs quickly, falling pale and still before he makes it more than a few feet from where Dean and his thegn watch dispassionately.

Dismissing the expired bowman, Dean looks to the knight Benny caught, scanning him for injuries. “There an axe buried in him somewhere?” he asks.

Benny huffs in amusement. “Nope. Just a good old fashioned boot to the skull.”

“Tie him up,” Dean says. “Perhaps he will prove more talkative than his companions.”

Dean extracts his spear from a dead man’s throat and then they mount up and head back up the road towards the column, his aches and pains making themselves known to him again now that the threat of the ambush has passed. They are still a little way out when something about their appearance must give away what has happened - the figure tied down over the back of Benny’s horse no doubt - because Castiel urges his horse into a canter to come out to meet them, guards and lords trailing behind him.

He stares at the unconscious knight slumped over Benny’s horse but reins up right in front of Dean, frowning in concern or anger. “What happened?” he snaps.

“We found your missing bowmen,” Dean tells him. “They’re a few miles east, just past a bridge.”

“Found them doing what?” Castiel asks, leaning forward in the saddle so he can press his fingers to a cut above Dean’s eyebrow. Belatedly Dean realizes he probably looks like a bit of a mess. There’s blood on his tunic, dried brown smears on the backs of his hands and Impala’s left flank and his leg caught the spray when he took that bowman’s head - his trousers are stiff and uncomfortable with drying blood.

“It was meant to be an ambush,” he says, then points at the slumped knight. “This one was in charge. The others are dead.”

Castiel nods, but only glances away from Dean for a moment. “You are uninjured?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

Castiel nods again and Dean reins Impala in a circle so he’s facing ahead again. Off to one side he sees Zachariah and even though he has absolutely no proof, he’s suddenly certain that he had something to do with the shoddy attack. It hadn’t been a violent reaction he’d been trying to get out of Dean with his tasteless insults, it had been exactly what had happened – he’d wanted Dean to ride on ahead so he’d be unprotected. They’d probably thought a dozen overkill for three unsuspecting barbarians. Dean smiles at him. Zachariah flushes and looks away, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

There is much frowning around the evening camp, most of it from Castiel. Dean actually feels better, relaxed almost, after having fought for the first time in months. He’d almost forgotten the thrill and excitement of getting his sword bloody. Victor and Benny seem to be in similar good humor.

Dean notices that Castiel’s lords pay him far more attention than usual. He’s uncertain how he feels about it. It’s as if they are shocked to learn that his sword and spear are not just decoration. It’s insulting. He’s younger than all of them but he’s certain he’s seen more action than them. Dean’s been riding the border for years and Crowley focuses most of his attentions there. It is easier to raid across the marshes and moors into Wessex than across mountains in the north into Eden.

Dean washes carefully before bed, making sure that the sweat of the road and the blood that soaked through his clothes is scrubbed away. Castiel watches silently, his gaze heavy against Dean’s back, like a physical weight. Dean isn’t surprised when Castiel reaches for him beneath the covers.

He does not ask this time, just pulls Dean close and kisses him. He does not take Dean in hand as he did the night before though, instead he kisses him harsh and biting before rolling him on his side and taking him quick and hard, curled up behind him with his teeth in Dean’s shoulder and his fingers digging into his hips.

Dean washes again while Castiel sleeps, smearing a little of Missouri’s ointment, carefully packed amidst his clothes, on himself to soothe the sting of Castiel’s attentions. He dreads the ride in the morning, already imagining the ache of the saddle. His stomach growls hungrily but he ignores it and returns to the furs. Castiel pulls him close, curling around him in a way that makes Dean feel smothered and trapped, and it takes him a long time to get to sleep.

“Dean.”

Castiel’s voice in his ear wakes him. He murmurs a sleepy “Cas?” and rolls over towards him.  By way of response he’s kissed. Castiel’s breath is stale with sleep, but Dean’s must be as well, so he politely ignores it. He feels Castiel against him, hard again, and shudders. He’s already so sore and he has to ride all day. He almost says something, almost tells him ‘No’, but there is something compelling about Castiel when he is like this, when it seems as if his want for Dean is an honest base thing, not something to do with heirs and alliances, and when he presses him down on his belly and grinds against him, oil-slick and ready, Dean spreads his legs, makes room for him between them.

The dark pre-dawn is silent, no noise save the wind and quiet whickering and movement from the horses outside. In the stillness Castiel’s breath and the wet sound of his body cleaving into Dean’s seems over-loud and obscene. Dean presses his face into the pillows to muffle his own harsh breath. Castiel is not being gentle and even though he is stretched a little still from before they slept, each pounding movement feels raw, agony lighting him up with flame from within.

It goes on and on and Dean feels almost sick with it, his heart skipping in his chest and unshed tears stinging his eyes, but eventually Castiel finishes, crushing Dean into the furs, breath rough and uneven against his skin.

Dean’s legs are unsteady as he crosses to the makeshift wash stand to clean himself after. He looks at the little tub of ointment but does not use any, despite how he hurts, because Castiel is awake and watching him. Instead he wipes his thighs clean of oil and come - stained pink where he has bled.

Castiel falls back asleep soon after, curled up close behind him, but Dean lays awake aching, unable to sleep, until the camp comes alive around them.

Without the distraction of any ambushes or snide comments from Zachariah, Dean finds the day’s ride near intolerable. Even the steady walk they set to keep pace with the men on foot seems too much, too fast. He feels almost feverish, but he thinks that is just because he is hungry. He felt too sore and torn to risk more than tea when they broke camp, and had eaten little the night before. He misses Missouri and her bitter tea and knowing looks. She at least would make sure there was _something_ he could eat. Broth maybe.

When they stop for lunch he eats more than he probably should, justifying that fainting from hunger is less desirable than having to run into the ditch and relieve himself. His stomach gurgles uncomfortably during the afternoon’s ride, but there are, mercifully, no other side effects to filling his stomach. It seems foolhardy to push his luck however, so he makes excuses at the evening meal and retires early.

He had hoped Castiel would leave him be as he had the first night of the ride when Dean had been fatigued, but he does not. He wakes Dean and has him when he comes to bed, and then takes him again in the morning even though the camp is awake around them and people are walking past their tent, no doubt perfectly aware of what is going on within. By the time he is done Dean’s jaw aches from grinding his teeth and there are crescents in his palms where he has dug in his nails to keep himself silent.

He feels shaky as he dresses, his fingers thick and awkward in the chill. There is cold sweat damp upon his brow and between his shoulder blades. When he tries to relieve himself he cannot pass any water but his bowels are loose and what little he ate the day before leaves him, though it is still with much pain and there is blood when he cleans himself after. The scent of the cooking fires makes his stomach roil and sticking to tea is much easier than usual.

He is very thirsty and his wineskin is dry long before they break for lunch. Benny and Victor eye him with concern. “You catch a chill?” Benny asks and Dean shrugs. He is beginning to think he has. There is that unsteadiness in his limbs and thick feeling in his head. There is nothing to be done for it however, he just has to tough it out until they make it to the castle. Once he arrives he can hide himself in bed for a few days until he is recovered.

It is mid-afternoon when Dean becomes hot. He knows the feeling, recognizes that he has a fever and should ignore the impulse, but he’s sweating and he’s _so hot_ that he can’t bear it. He pulls his cloak off. The chill air is heavenly and for a little while he feels more awake.

Victor frowns at him however. “You _do_ have a chill,” he says and Dean nods.

“Think I do,” he agrees.

“Put your furs back on,” he demands.

Dean does, eventually, when the heat in his cheeks turns into ice and he is suddenly shivering. The process repeats itself all afternoon. Dean is hot - Dean takes of his cloak. Dean is cold - Dean pulls it back on. He doesn’t even bother trying to make excuses when they break for camp, or washing or cleaning his teeth for that matter. The moment the tent is up, he stumbles in and passes out.

Castiel has him when he comes to bed, and Dean _thinks_ again a little later, but it’s hazy and he can’t quite remember. When he wakes up he aches all over and the throb between his legs seems almost muted in comparison to the bone deep hurt in his joints. His sides feel tender, like his guts are bruised and beneath the hinges of his jaw the skin is aching and swollen. He passes a little water, but nothing else. His mouth is dry and he drinks half a dozen cups of tea while everyone eats.

Getting his leg over Impala takes a _lot_ of effort and concentration, and once he is in the saddle Dean thinks for an awful dizzy moment that he will fall. He remembers little of the morning - he spends it slumped shivering and miserable, letting Impala guide herself more or less. They must stop for lunch at some point, though Dean doesn’t recall. What he does remember is falling from the saddle, his fingers weak and stiff, unable to even grip the reins to steady himself. The ground beneath him is cold and hard, the sky above clear and Impala’s curious nose snuffles wetly against his face before Victor and Benny are there, their mouths shaping words Dean can’t quite hear.

When next he is awake he is back in bed, the stuffy air of the tent warm and thick around him. He smells herbs burning in the brazier, acrid and stinking. He is naked beneath the blankets and furs, and he is shivering. There are voices – Castiel, Benny and one he does not know. He turns his throbbing head towards them. Castiel and the stranger are talking in murmuring Enochian, unaware, but Benny notices that he’s awake.

“Aetheling?” he asks and instantly Castiel’s eyes are on him, his head snapping around. Dean blinks and tries to sit up. The stranger – a woman Dean does not know – tuts and gently pushes him back down.

“Don’t try and move,” she tells him in a lilting rendition of his native tongue. Dean slumps back not because she had told him, but because it feels like his heart is trying to skip out of his chest and he can’t quite breathe. “You have a blood fever.”

Dean closes his eyes and sighs.

“I cleaned your wounds, but they don’t appear to have gone bad and your thane tells me you have been ill for a few days. That you thought you had a chill?”

Dean nods.

“When did you first notice weakness?”

Dean tries to think, but how is he to separate real illness from the constant ache and pain being Castiel’s husband leaves him with since there is something deformed and broken within him? “I felt feverish. Yesterday,” he manages. “I suppose… a little ill the day before… in my stomach.”

“How do you feel now?” she asks. “Do you ache? Do you have heat and pain in any cuts or wounds? Even old ones you thought had healed?”

The one above his eye stings, but he suspects that has to do with whatever ‘cleaning out’ the doctor did. There is one place he hurts of course, but is he certainly not going to mention it to her. “No,” he says.

He is given something awful to drink that tastes like weeds, and then he is left alone and he sleeps uneasily, drifting in and out as wet cloths are placed upon his brow and cooling tinctures are rubbed into his arms and across his chest. Benny’s face is replaced by Victor’s for a while, and Castiel and the doctor come and go. When next he wakes he feels worse, his blood on fire and his guts churning. He manages to heave himself half out of the bedding before he loses whatever watery bile was in his stomach onto the rugs carpeting the tent.

Benny appears beside him and gives him a cup of water to sip. Dean rinses his mouth and falls back into the pillows, asleep again almost instantly.

 

 

Someone is touching him.

There are insistent hands at his hips and shoulder and though Dean flounders against them, he is rolled onto his stomach. He’s naked and there’s cold air against him and the air is thick with the smells of sweat and herbs and something cool and liquid hits his back, a hand smoothing it across his skin and _oil_ he thinks and _no no no_.

“No,” he says, but his voice is weak and he cannot even open his eyes. “No please no Castiel.”

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice from behind and above and his hand in Dean’s hair and cool and wet trickling down his spine and soon those fingers will twist and pull and Castiel will tear him in half and he can’t--

“Please, please don’t.”

He’s weak and he’s broken and; “It hurts it hurts please don’t.”

“Dean, be still.”

Dean wants to obey, wants to be good but just this once he can’t find the strength to. “I promise,” he tells Castiel. “Later. I’ll be still I’ll be good. Give you lots of heirs I promise but please not now.”

The hands are gone and there is a blanket on top of him. “Thank you,” he says. “Thank you.”

 

Dean sleeps long and when he wakes it’s to Benny and his uncle talking and he should get up, shouldn’t lay around sleeping when the other rídend are up, they’ll think he’s lazy. Being an aetheling means you have to be better than everyone else. You have to try harder. Dean’s father never lays abed sleeping. He’s always up with the dawn. He won his first melee at 15, a wife at 18 and the crown at 22 when a cursed man cut down the old king Henry.

Dean can hear him now, arguing with uncle. They always argue when they think Dean can’t hear. Sammy hates it. It makes him cry and Sammy’s too young to know aethelingas don’t cry. Saxons don’t cry. “Sammy,” Dean says, but he can hardly get the words out. They catch and rasp in his throat. “S’okay Sammy.”

But then Benny is calling him, because it’s time to wake up and Sammy’s not here – Sammy’s with the Campbells, down in the south far away. Dean’ll probably never see him again. Dean turns his head, he doesn’t want to wake up.

Now his father is shaking him, telling him he has to be strong but Dean is so tired of being strong. His hand is heavy on Dean’s shoulder just like when he left. King John and his thegn riding out the palace gates, Dean left behind.  His throat feels raw but the words come anyway.

“You didn’t say goodbye. You just rode away and left me here.”

Why did his father leave him? Why did he send him away? Did he see it? Even then? When Dean was 14 could his father already see that he would grow up weak and broken? A thing to be sold for knights and bowmen?  

There’s a ringing in his ears. He hears bells. His father’s voice as if from far away.

_I offer my son, Prince Dean of Wessex._

There is a cord tight around his hand, digging into his wrist, tight tight pulling, pulling his arm behind his back and the stink of _oil_ and herbs in his throat choking him as he burns, as the man his father sold him to tears him half, _hurts_ him why John is downstairs feasting. _A Saxon does not cry Dean and an Aetheling never does._ But Dean can feel tears hot on his cheeks anyway.

It’s weak but he begs his father anyway. _“Please don’t leave me here.”_

“ _Dean!_ ”

Benny. Benny pushing him down. “It’s just a fever Dean. It’s okay.”

But it’s not because Benny has to watch, and he cannot make them out in the darkness of the room but he knows they are there, Christian and Princess Raphael and King’s cousin Samandiriel, they are watching and Dean can feel tears on his cheeks. He is crying and he will shame his father, but he doesn’t care anymore. “Please! Please I don’t want to,” he tells Benny. “I _can’t_.”

“Shhh,” Benny says. “You don’t have to do anything, just sleep.”

Dean wants to believe him but he can hear _his_ low voice, soft murmur of strange Enochian. _On your knees._

“Nonononoo.”

He’ll die. He can’t do it anymore.

Hands press him down into the blankets and he tries to throw them off but he’s too weak. Maybe he should just sleep. Sleep until it’s over.

 

Benny holds a cup to his lips and Dean swallows. He expects it to be bitter ashy tea, but it’s water, just water. Sweet and cool on his throat.

 

He hears them, later. They are still fighting, father and uncle.

_\- Scared half to death of you! What did you do to him?_

_Nothing! I did nothing!_

_\- Sworn to him not you. You’re not my king, you-_

_I would never harm him. You have no right to speak to me_

_\- doesn’t eat doesn’t sleep-_

_He is my husband I swore before god_

_\- doesn’t ride! What Saxon doesn’t ride?_

Dean doesn’t understand what they are fighting about, but then he rarely does.

 

His dreams are not dreams and he doesn’t know he has been sleeping until he is not.

 

There is a pillow beneath his cheek. The rough rasp of fur over his shoulder. He’s warm. Too warm perhaps. He feels sticky with sweat – both dried and new – and there is a horrible taste in his mouth.

The doctor is talking, quick and low, and Castiel is frowning and --

“—lay with him last?” she is asking.

“…That morning and the night before.”

“And earlier?”

“I had him… I had him twice the day before.”

Dean thinks Castiel sounds guilty. Or ashamed.

 

He must sleep again because then the doctor is leaning over him and pressing her hands low into his stomach in firm strokes. “Prince Dean,” she says. “Does it hurt?”

He nods because _everything_ hurts. She moves her hands and he groans as her fingers dig into his sides where he feels like he has been kicked. “Here?” she asks. “It hurts here?”

He nods. “Hurts…” he manages to agree.

Dean dreams of his father, but he knows it is a dream this time and when he wakes up he feels terrible, but the thick feeling in his head is gone. The tent is too warm.

Later, Benny and a servant help him wash while the bedding is changed and he feels better for it as the sweat and streaked evidence of tinctures and medicinal washes are rubbed away. He is sitting amidst the pillows, in fresh clothes, laboriously eating a bowl of oats with honey and cream and strong sweet tea when Castiel appears.

When Dean looks up and meets his eyes across the small tent, his shoulders relax and he almost smiles. Well, for Castiel it is a close thing at least, on anyone else it would be still be nearer to a scowl. He crosses the narrow space and folds down to sit on the edge of the bedding facing Dean. “How are you feeling?” he asks intently, eyes seeming to bore into Dean’s.

“Like I’m not stuck in a long fever dream anymore,” Dean mumbles, embarrassed that Castiel saw him in such a state.

“Yes. Your fever broke last night.”

Dean nods and twists his spoon in his bowl, mixing a line of honey into the thick oats.

“You were very ill Dean,” Castiel says quietly. “You were delirious for days. The doctor – and she is very skilled – was not sure she could save you.”

Dean shrugs. “Well I feel fine,” he lies. “Weak like I haven’t eaten in a few days --"

Castiel cuts him off. “A feeling you are no doubt familiar with.” There is something accusing in his tone and Dean tenses.

“What do you mean?” he hedges.

“Your thegn are very dedicated to you. They thought their aetheling dying. Benedickt spoke of things I believe you wished kept in confidence.”

Dean stares down at his oats, dread sitting cold in his stomach. Benny doesn’t know everything, but he knows _enough._ Enough to truly anger and insult Castiel. “What did he tell you?” Dean asks, dreading the answer, trying to think when he last heard his friend’s voice…

“The doctor asked when he first noticed you sicken and he said it was months past, when I became your husband. He became very agitated. He said if this fever did not kill you then I would surely see you in the earth before long anyway.”

Dean’s oats are swirled mess, cream and honey thoroughly mixed in. He keeps fiddling with the spoon anyway, unable to look up at Castiel. “He doesn’t understand,” he says, wondering if his friend was locked up somewhere for doing something stupid like attacking the king because Dean caught a chill… “He swore an oath to protect me and he has done many times. He sees threats were there are none. Please forgive him any insult. I will speak to him of it, make sure it does not happen again.”

Castiel sounds confused when he speaks again. “Dean, I have not punished him.”

Dean looks up in surprise. “Oh.”

“He is sleeping I believe,” Castiel tells him. “But I am sure will come and be loud and inappropriate the moment he hears you are awake.” He gestures towards the cinched flap of the tent. “Victor is without.”

Dean nods and swallows dryly.

Castiel moves a little closer and pries the bowl of oats from him, placing it aside. Dean twists his fingers in the bedding for want of something to do with them, until Castiel takes up the one nearest to him and holds it in his own. His hands are chill from being outdoors, dry and rough where his palms are calloused from gripping a sword, but elsewhere soft and smooth almost like a woman’s.

“Your thegn Benedickt said you caught a chill a few winter’s past,” he says, making Dean frown in confusion, “-- but that everyone knew long before you realized because you kept half the keep awake with your coughing and were not hungry come morning, when usually the cooks had to chase you from the kitchen. That your Uncle had to order you to your room where you insisted you were fine right up until the fever took you.”

Dean remembers that. He also remembers how his aunt and uncle had teased about it after the fact. Every time Dean took an injury or picked some sniffle up from the camp, Lord Singer would breeze past to check on him and quote his favored parts of Dean’s denials back at him. _‘Oh you are fine I suppose Dean? You’ll ride to Winchester and back before sundown? You’ll beat down your guard barehanded if they try and keep you abed?’_

“He said he could not tell when you might have fallen ill, because you were _always_ sickened,” Castiel says, then is silent for a moment, frowning down at Dean’s hand encased in his own. “He said you did not eat. He said you did not sleep. He said I left you in such pain you did not leave your bed. He said you would go down to the stables and spend hours brushing down you horse but never ride her. He said every morning he half expected to find you’d thrown yourself from your window. He said-.” Castiel breaks off as his voice becomes rough and swallows loudly. “He said that you never agreed to marry me, that your father gave you to me without your consent, with no forewarning and that… and that I was cruel.”

Dean is silent. He feels torn. Castiel is clearly upset, but all Benny has said is true more or less, if overly dramatic. Dean would never throw himself from a _window_...

Castiel continues, working himself into some sort of crescendo. “He said you had born arrow wounds and broken bones more easily than you bore my attentions.” He finally looks up again and Dean bites at his lip at the conflicted expression upon his face. It is plain that he wants Dean to say that it is all wrong, that Benny doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Dean finds the lie hard to come by though, despite the fact that he knows he must make it.

“In your fever you – you _screamed_ when I touched you. Begged me not to lay with you, as if you truly thought I would despite how ill you were.”

The pity and guilt Dean has been feeling lessens at that, because he remembers how _sore_ he had woken the day he fell from his horse. “It did not stop you the night before,” he says, quiet and accusing. “You had me twice. At least I think you did. It felt it when I woke.”

The blood drains from Castiel’s face and he looks stricken. “I did not…” he starts, shaking his head. “You are always _so quiet!_ I did not _know_ …”

Dean swallows and looks away. He wants Castiel to leave, wants him to let go of the hand he is near crushing and just be _gone._

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel demands and Dean looks up sullenly, ashamed and angry and a thousand things all at once. “I am _sorry._ When I realized how sick you were, I felt… I would never hurt you intentionally. If you are sick or tired… or if I... _hurt_ you, you need only tell me, I would never force you in that way.”

“You’re my husband,” Dean insists. “I have to give you heirs. It’s my duty.”

Castiel’s face crumples. “You bear my attentions because it is your duty?” he asks quietly.

“Of course,” Dean agrees in confusion.

Castiel nods and is silent for a long moment but eventually he speaks. “Dean, did your father speak to you of the treaty before you came to Eden?” he asks.

Dean swallows nervously. “Yes,” he says, not meeting his eyes.

“And did you know we were to be wed?”

Humiliatingly Dean feels his eyes burn with unshed tears. He clenches his jaw and tries to stave them off. Not trusting his voice to hold, he shakes his head.

“When did you learn of it?” Castiel asks, voice low.

“I… Anael spoke of it,” Dean says, intending to lie, but more words follow, spilling quietly out of his traitorous mouth. “But I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what paracleda meant until my father gave me to you in the chapel.”

Dean blinks and feels a hot tear run down his cheek. He looks awkwardly off to one side, not willing to meet Castiel’s gaze.

When Castiel speaks his voice is rough. “Dean I did not know. You are a Prince. I assumed your views upon our union mirrored my own – duty – but I never suspected you were so… unprepared. I would not… I would not have…” His words trail off unfinished. At some point he has moved closer and Dean finds himself being pulled into an awkward sort of hug, his head tucked beneath Castiel’s chin. He does not want comfort from Castiel, not really, but he’s tired and weak and he can hardly think straight, the fever still lingering in his bones. “You truly had no lovers before this?” Castiel asks, and Dean can tell he wants him to say that had been a lie. “No girls at court who caught your eye? You say you had not lain with anyone, but you had at least kissed someone surely? Been held like this?”

Dean doesn’t understand why Castiel would want him to have done any such things - _he_ is Dean’s husband and though hardly expected, especially in a Prince, usually such restraint before marriage is appreciated. “No,” he says, thinking. “I used… I used to hug my brother when he was little. When he cried.” He feels Castiel’s throat bob as he swallows. “And… my aunt. She would kiss my cheek. And my little cousin Lady Jo.” In the wake of Castiel’s continued silence he feels compelled to add: “And Sir Balthazar kissed me. Though I did not like it.”

Castiel’s grip on him tightens and after a moment that seems to drag on far too long, he lets out a brief, ugly, laugh. “Do not let Balthazar know he can lay claim to your first kiss. We will never hear the end of it. He will have it etched upon his tomb.”

Dean nods, though obviously there was never any risk of him telling Balthazar any such thing.

Castiel pulls Dean a little closer, arms warm and tight where he is holding him and presses his chin against the crown of Dean’s head. “Forgive me Dean, I have been a poor husband. I will do better, I swear it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THUS CONCLUDES THE AWFUL DICKING SECTION OF OUR TALE. REJOICE, DEAN'S BOT-BOT WILL IN FUTURE CHAPTERS BE LAVISHED WITH THE TENDER LOVE AND AFFECTION IT DESERVES.


	10. Chapter 10

Dean allows Castiel to hold him for a minute, then draws away from him a little. Castiel releases him easily and sits back with his hands folded in his lap. The silence between them quickly grows uncomfortable. Dean looks around the tent, trying to think of something to say to break the tension. He’s debating telling Castiel he’s tired in the hopes he’ll leave when Castiel clears his throat and draws his attention back.

“I have sent most of the men on ahead,” he says. “A single company remains in case of any more trouble. The doctor says you may be moved, though she thinks you should ride in one of the baggage carts.”

Dean balks at that, sitting up straighter and frowning at Castiel. “I’m not riding in a _baggage cart_ ,” he replies, indignant.

Castiel smiles a little. “I suspected you might feel that way. We can remain another day or two until you are fit to ride.”

“I could ride today,” Dean insists stubbornly.

“Considering you rode two days with a blood fever, I do not doubt that Dean,” Castiel tells him. “But we will remain until you have regained a little strength regardless. The snows came during your convalescence and even without men on foot slowing us, we are still a week from our destination.”

They remain two more nights. Victor and Benny hover and between his thegn, Castiel and the doctor, Dean quickly grows frustrated at being stuck in bed and fed a seemingly endless parade of awful tasting tea, thick porridges and salted broth. Castiel sleeps beside him, but apart from sleepily reaching for him in the coldest parts of the night, does not touch him. Dean is grateful for the reprieve. Humiliating as it is to have been seen so weak, he can’t deny how relieved he is that it has bought him a break from his husband’s attentions.

He feels unsteady on his feet the morning of third day, but the prospect of another day spent bored out of his skull staring up at the tent quickly has him up and dressed and demanding they ride. Castiel eyes him warily though and has the doctor give him a thorough once-over before he’s allowed anywhere near a horse.

It’s midmorning by the time they depart. He seems to have slept off most of his aches and pains, and beside a lingering weakness in his limbs and the occasional twinge from his insides, Dean finds the ride onwards comfortable enough. Enjoyable even after spending so long trapped in a tiny tent with the stink of his own sickness.

He is still tired, but Castiel seems to have taken over for Missouri and calls stops far more often than usual so the doctor can prod at him and force food and strange tasting teas upon him. Dean doesn’t like being so coddled, but he is aware of how thin and pathetic he has grown, and is not so stupid as to pass up the chance to regain some of his strength before Castiel deems him recovered enough to resume his husbandly duties.

Benny and Victor both seem to be in better spirits than Dean has seen in a long while. They pass a skin of wine between them and tell boastful tales of past battles as much for the benefit of the Edenish knights riding with them as each other. Benny is the middle of one of his better stories – the one where he beheaded an Eastern axeman and then threw the head, managing to knock another raider off his horse with it – when Castiel draws Dean’s eye and begins to speak to him in his softly accented West Saxon.

“The pass should be visible soon Dean,” he says. “We will need to make camp again tonight, but over there, above that ridge--," He points at the white capped range they are riding alongside, “-- the keep and pass road should soon come into view.”

Sure enough when they ride a little further Dean can make out the dark line of the pass as it threads its way up back and forth across the roots of the mountain like a black serpent against the white of the snow. There is a dark section, shadows and shapes against the spine of the spur mid-way up the mountain. “That’s the keep?” he asks, pointing.

Castiel nods.

There is a lot of snow and it looks very windy clinging to the side of the mountain. “You said it was warmer here than the city,” Dean says. “I begin to think you lied.”

Castiel smiles. “We are much further south here, so yes, despite all the snow, comparatively the winters are milder.” He holds up a hand in the lazy drift of flakes sprinkling down upon them. “If it is like this here, there is no doubt a blizzard upon the palace.” His smile widens. “Anael is probably taking her meals in bed under every fur she owns with the fire banked so high the tapestries in her chamber are smoking.”

They make camp more or less at the foot of the pass. Dean wonders why they bother, why they do not simply push on, but discovers the reason the next morning. Despite looking close, the trek up to the keep is long and arduous, a constant back and forth that takes them up only very slowly. By the time they arrive at the heavy stone gates guarding the pass proper, it is late afternoon and Dean is exhausted.

The surprise that greets him beyond the gate house is enough to pull a second wind from him despite the long ride however. From below the keep looked a simple stone and wood affair clinging to the mountainside, but inside Dean is shocked to find that it is _huge._ The Keep itself is a round stone drum, but it spreads out like roots through the mountain along a series of caves that have been walled in. The line of small stone turrets he had taken for watch towers actually top a long hall carved into the stone below, acting as chimneys for the great fires that blaze within to keep it lit. The castle proper sits squat between these underground caverns, like a spider in the middle of a web. The chambers Dean is shown to are housed within and Castiel was right, he is reminded a little of the castles back home.

It is plain stone with heavy wooden furniture and there is straw and strewing herbs across the floor in place of the carpets or polished stone of the palace in Zion. There is a distinct smell of horse and men about the place, but it is no worse than a camp and Dean does not mind. He is leery of leaving Impala in a _cave_ however, and says as much.

Castiel assures him she will be well cared for but that he is welcome to check on her as much as he wants. Since she doesn’t seem to notice any difference in her accommodation to her usual stables, he lets it pass.

It does not take Dean long to realize that the room he has been shown to is the keep’s lord’s chamber, and for him to come to the conclusion that Castiel means for them to continue to share a bed as they had a tent. The thought makes him anxious. Having his own room – being left to pull himself together in privacy after Castiel has lain him – is not something he is wants to risk going without. He is tired enough from the ride that he’s able to dismiss such thoughts for a while though and he naps a little as the sun sinks before being awoken by Castiel sometime shortly after it sets.

“Lord Joshua has arranged a feast in honor of our arrival,” he tells him. “It would be good if you could come and be seen to be recovered.”

Dean nods. “Of course.” He stares around blearily, trying to remember where the chest of his clothes had ended up. “Do I have to dress fancy?” he asks, yawning and stretching, trying to remember what had been packed for him back at the palace.

“No,” Castiel says with some amusement. “If anything court fashions will be out of place here. Wear your southern clothes if they are more comfortable.”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice and after washing the road off himself pulls on a warmer tunic in burgundy and a dark pair of trousers. He keeps his warm northern cloak though. Castiel is wearing one of his simple dark robes over trousers and boots and nods when he sees what Dean has pulled on. “But wear your circlet,” he tells him. “The foot soldiers feel cheated when they don’t see crowns.”

Dean hadn’t brought the chest of goldwork with him, but his older plain circlet was packed in with his buckles and cloak pins so he it puts it on.

Castiel is wearing something similar, a plain band across his brow. “Good,” he says and offers Dean his arm.

“This feels even more ridiculous when I’m not wearing silly northern silks,” Dean mutters as they make their way down to the high hall and this Lord Joshua’s feast.

“What does?” Castiel asks in amused confusion.

“Walking around on your arm like your dear lady wife or something.”

Castiel huffs out a laugh. “I doubt anyone could mistake you for my _wife_ Dean. You are taller than near everyone. Even your own looming thegn.”

Victor snorts from behind them.

“ _You’re_ taller than my ‘looming thegn’ as you put it,” Dean replies.

“Only just,” Castiel says. “And I am not nearly so wide.”

Dean’s lips twitch. “I think the King is calling you fat Victor,” he calls over his shoulder.

“His majesty refers to Benny I’m sure,” Victor replies calmly.

Lord Joshua turns out to be distant kin to Castiel through his Aunt Raphael, and very welcoming. The fare is far plainer than that served in the Capital, but it is more to Dean’s tastes for all that and he eats heartily and drinks deep of the good southern ale Lord Joshua serves. There is a lot of staring and the Knights and Lords who rode ahead ask after his health and toast to his recovery. A few of them look put out and are patently false in their words, but Dean ignores them. As little as Dean likes dangling off it, Castiel’s arm is actually helpful as they make their way back to their room, since his capacity for aforementioned ale seems to have diminished dramatically.

Dean manages to clean his teeth and scrub his face then he falls into bed and suddenly it is morning.

The room is empty but there is breakfast sitting on the table to one side, a plate with crumbs and a half empty cup of small ale evident that Castiel has already risen and gone. His head pounds softly as he stumbles to the garderobe to relieve his straining bladder and rinse the sour taste from his mouth.

The sound of boots and steel echoes up through the narrow windows and Dean opens the shutters and peers out curiously at the men drilling down in the courtyard below.

He eats his fill and then wanders downstairs, Benny and Victor falling in behind him. He takes a scenic route to check on Impala, who still doesn’t seem to realize that she’s in a cave and greets him like she’s used to spending her time underground. For lack of anything better to do, and because he’s curious, Dean walks around the keep instead of heading back to his chamber. There are men everywhere it seems, talking, eating and drilling in garrisons of hundreds. The number of knights is staggering. Dean can’t imagine where all their horses are stashed, the stable Impala is in, while huge, couldn’t house the _thousands_ he suspects must be somewhere.

He looks, but doesn’t find Castiel and he doesn’t want to be seen… asking after him. He is getting enough suspicious and openly hostile looks as it is. There are a few muttered insults in Enochian and Benny and Victor spend a lot of time scowling at people, but Dean ignores them no matter how they make his skin prickle. He wonders if the Edenish will ever warm to him or if he will be regarded with suspicion until the day he dies.

After lunch he is seized by weariness and sleeps away the afternoon. He does not see Castiel until he is seated next to him at the high table that evening. He tries to speak to him a few times, and Castiel asks how he is feeling and how he passed his day, but Joshua and several other lords are gathered about him vying for his attention and the exchanges are brief. Dean wants to ask him about the men – how many have been mustered to the keep, where they and their horses are sleeping and how Lord Joshua expects to feed them all winter – but he doesn’t want to ask such obvious things in front of Castiel’s lords and captains.

Instead he has several bowls of good thick stew and rather less ale than the night before.

Castiel comes to bed very late and Dean is only half awake when he does, still not quite himself after his fever and sleepy from his large meal. He is gone again the next morning and Dean tries very hard not to think too much upon it. Castiel has given no sign he is angry with Dean, if anything he was unexpectedly attentive during Dean’s fever - despite Dean apparently screaming at him in his delirium  - and their conversation afterwards, though awkward, had seemed heart felt and honest.

Castiel is a king preparing for war, he is doubtless busy and Dean will not make a nuisance of himself by chasing after his attention. If anything he should be glad for the time alone. Since he has been able to eat his fill Dean actually feels stronger than he has in weeks, despite the fever. His clothes are still very loose however and he knows the strength he feels is an illusion. His sword when he lifts it is strangely heavy and awkward in his hands, his shield feels like it is made from stone and he does not think he could throw a spear with any sort of distance or accuracy. It is a wonder he was able to fight off the ambush at all really. Adrenaline and dumb luck.

It would be idiocy to ignore the opportunity his recovery and Castiel’s distraction offers, so Dean takes to wearing his mail under his tunic to re-accustom himself to the weight of it and help strengthen his wasted frame. It has been months since he wore full armor and it hangs heavily over his shoulders. Even walking around the keep his breath is always short and he aches after only the first day, but it is an honest ache, not the throb of illness or fever and therefore almost comforting in a way.

He sees Castiel at most evening meals, and they sometimes take breakfast together. Castiel always asks after his health, and the doctor visits him almost daily as well. When he comments upon Dean wearing mail, he seems pleased that he is attempting to regain his strength. For all that he professes to care for Dean, he would undoubtedly prefer a healthy consort to bear his children rather than a sickly one prone to chills and fevers.

The next morning Castiel is still in the room when Dean wakes later than usual. Dean greets him sleepily, wondering what he is doing, then goes about his morning ablutions. He’s loading up a plate with sasauges when Castiel approaches from where he had been fiddling around in one of the chests containing his clothing.

“I thought this might fit you better?” he asks, holding up a byrnie of fine bright mail.

Dean reaches out and Castiel passes it to him. It’s cool and smooth in his hands, the rings tighter and smaller to that he’s accustomed too. He’s not sure why Castiel is offering it to him though.

“Your mail seems too loose for the moment,” Castiel explains. “This is one of mine, a little smaller. It might be less cumbersome?”

It’s still heavy, but not as long as Dean’s, and perhaps the cut of it would not fit so well with his saxon armor, but to wear by itself… it _does_ look more comfortable. “Thank you,” he tells Castiel, grateful for the apparent thought behind the gift. “But surely you’ll need you armor yourself?”

He shakes his head. “I rarely wear mail. I wear my plate or none at all.”

That sounds about right. Now that he’s said it Dean cannot recall ever seeing him in mail. The Edenish bowman and squires are the only men Dean can recall wearing lighter armor. All the knights favor plate.

“Then thank you,” he says again.

Castiel nods and leaves him to his breakfast.

The byrnie _is_ much more comfortable than his own, and though Dean doesn’t admit it to himself, he likes the lines of Edenish designs along the cuffs and around collar. Pointless decoration, but appealing _._

He is still too embarrassed to consider sparring with Benny or Victor where anyone might see him, so for the most part he just does what simple drills and stretches as he can in his room, trying to retrain his arms into their old steadiness, but he takes Impala out for long rides with thegn, that is exercise he is not ashamed to share with them.

It is on one such trip that he discovers the secret of the keep’s capacity and self-sufficiency. One of the narrow cart trails that branches off the pass proper leads to a valley hidden amidst the range, ringed-in on all sides by snowy peaks. Meadows have been picketed off into makeshift paddocks and there are the knights’ missing horses, herds of Edenish mares and geldings huddled for warmth. The rest of the valley lies bare and fallow save the fields sown with winter grains. There are barns and a mill and a village set there on the shores of a frosted lake. Figures bundled against the cold are dotted about tending to the horses and crops and going about their business.

Victor whistles. “This must be the ‘garden’ the men were talking of.”

“Garden?” Dean asks.

His thegn nods. “I thought it was in jest, but apparently they were being more literal than I thought.  I heard some of the knights call Lord Joshua ‘The Gardener’. I assumed it was just bizarre Northern humor.”

“This pass leads down to Essex,” Benny mutters, eyeing the well provisioned little hamlet suspiciously. “I bet these Edenish have been plotting away, getting this place ready, planning to ride down and take Essex by surprise.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “A hundred years ago _maybe_ that was their intention, but it matters little now. And besides, what care you for the East Saxons?”

Benny grumbles. “Well, they’re Saxons too aren’t they?”

“We warred with them as much as the Edenish before they fell to Perdition,” Dean reminds him.

“Still,” Benny insists. “They’re… cousins of a sort.”

Dean chooses not to remind him that going back far enough the Edenish are more or less their ‘cousins’ too, as are Crowley’s rabble. He puts little stock in such connections.

They make a slow circuit of the valley, following paths between the fields and pastures. Dean enjoys the change of scenery and Benny and Victor take advantage of their relative isolation from any nosy Edenish knights or lords to bicker like an old married couple. They are still sniping at each other in hushed asides – something about a dice game gone sour - as they rub down their horses hours later.

Castiel is again deep in conversation throughout the evening meal so Dean leaves him be and focuses instead on the good food and watching the men eating at the lower tables. It’s mostly knights, lower ranked lordlings and a few captains seated in the high hall, the other men eating wherever they are garrisoned around the keep. Dean amuses himself picking out those with the most ridiculous crests emblazoned on their tabards. Eventually he decides on a tie between a man with what looks like a radish or turnip stitched over his heart and another with an angry moon brandishing a sword.

Glancing aside at Castiel, who is frowning at something some Lord or another has said, Dean is glad that his sigil is so inoffensive, (not that Castiel wears clothing bearing the crest very often). A husband with a radish on his cloak would be one insult too many. Castiel notices his attention and glances at him, raising an eyebrow in silent query. Dean shakes his head and looks away, letting the king get back to his conversation. Dean’s Edenish is still not perfect, but he’s fairly certain they are arguing over a river the Lord thinks will flood in the thaws and that Castiel does not. If it is the one Dean thinks it is – one that twists through Perdition and across the marshes north of Winchester – then Castiel has it right. When they are walking back to their room later, Dean tells Castiel so, explaining how that river drains into the marshlands and has never burst its banks as far as he knows.

Castiel nods his thoughtful agreement. “Yes that’s what I thought. I am glad you agree.”

It is hardly praise, but Castiel’s words make Dean feel an awkward sort of pleasure, like when a pretty girl pays him a compliment.

A week after their arrival at the pass, Dean feels almost himself again. Good sleep and hearty meals have gone a long way towards helping him regain his strength and apart from the occasional twinge, the pains that have plagued him ever since Castiel first came to his bed are gone. He is still conscious of how out of practice he is however, and rather than sparring in one of the yards, he trains with Benny and Victor in the valley up the pass.

They go easy on him to start, but rídend are not known for their softness and Dean finds himself spending a great deal of time flat on his back being teased. Bruises and blisters from sword, shield and spear start to spread over his palace-soft skin and each mark is soothing in a way. For the last few years Dean has always had at least one fading bruise somewhere, from training or battle, and the splits in his knuckles and the yellows and purples across his ribs seem almost like old friends, make him feel like himself again.

As such he doesn’t think of them at all when Castiel surprises him washing after a sparring session that had left Dean in the dirt, then Benny, and then Dean again. The king has been polite but distant since their arrival, rarely seeing Dean outside of the evening meal and a few brief exchanges in the night or early morning such as people sharing a bed are bound to have. When they do talk it is always friendly though, Castiel asking after his health or if there is anything he needs, so Dean just looks up from the wash stand and gives the king a brief smile and a nod in greeting before returning to the task of cleaning sweat and dirt off his bare chest. It’s a little embarrassing, but Cas has seen him in far more intimate settings and he does at least still have his trousers on.

Castiel crosses the room quickly and takes hold of Dean’s shoulder, turning him so they are face to face.

Dean starts in shock, the cloth he’d been washing with dripping tepid water over both of them. “Whoa!”

Castiel ignores the exclamation, and the water, his face set in a fierce scowl. “Who did this to you?” he demands.

Dean blinks. Castiel is very close and the grip he has on Dean is not gentle. “What?”

Castiel purses his lips and gestures at the flaring bloom of blue and purple Victor had left down one side of Dean’s ribs.

“ _Oh_.” Dean shrugs. “It’s nothing. I was just sparring with Victor and Benny.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “ _Sparring?_ ” he asks. “It looks as if your horse fell on you!”

Dean raises an eyebrow at the over-reaction. “It’s just a bruise.”

Castiel doesn’t look convinced. In fact, he sends one of his men to go fetch the doctor, despite Dean’s protests. The same woman who treated Dean with his fever and who has been tormenting him almost daily since appears only a few minutes later, out of breath and slightly frazzled. She looks from Dean, who is standing as far away from Castiel as the room permits with his arms crossed, to the king. “Your majesty?” she asks.

“Prince Dean is injured,” Castiel says, without looking at Dean. “See to him.”

She nods and approaches Dean, who sighs and glares at Castiel.

“I’m _fine,_ ” he tells the room at large.

“Take off your tunic,” Castiel says by way of response. “The doctor will be the judge of that.”

Dean yanks off the garment and scrunches it into a ball before throwing it aside, only narrowly restraining the urge to throw it at Castiel’s stubborn over-reacting head. The doctor’s face is carefully neutral. She steps forward and inspects the large bruise on his ribs before nudging Dean so he will turn and she can inspect his back.

“See?!” Dean demands, glaring at Castiel over his shoulder. “It’s just a bruise.”

“Your ribs don’t appear to be cracked,” the doctor agrees evenly. “Though it is a sizeable injury, I can see why his Majesty was concerned.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing!” Castiel almost snaps, coming closer to yelling than Dean has ever heard from him. “You were ambushed only weeks ago and nearly died of a fever shortly after!”

Dean scrunches up his face in confusion and irritation. “What’s that got to do with anything?” he demands.

“You keep things from me!” Castiel says. “You lie! I discover you beaten and you expect me to believe that your own guards did it!?”

Dean frowns, the accusation throwing him off his own anger. “Of course it was them. And I’m not _beaten,_ ” he says. “We were sparring. I’m out of practice and Victor shield slammed me onto my ass.”

“And the black eye?” Castiel demands, stalking across the room. “And the cut on your lip?”

Dean shrugs and pats at his face. And okay, _maybe_ he has a _tiny_ black eye, and a little stinging split on his bottom lip, but they're just little bumps. Taps. _Nothing._ “I don’t remember,” he says. “One of them.”

Castiel scoffs. “Stop it. You don’t remember being punched in the face?”

“We were _sparring--_ "

“Who did this?” Castiel demands, advancing again, getting so close he’s almost standing on Dean’s feet.  “Tell me.”

Dean looks at the doctor, hoping for some kind of back up, but she’s digging through her case and studiously ignoring both of them.

Castiel’s voice lowers but manages to sound even angrier despite that. “Why are you protecting them?”

“Castiel,” Dean says as calmly as he's able, raising a hand in a placating gesture. “I’m not lying, it was just --"

“Are you afraid? Did they threaten you?” Castiel’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Was it Zachariah?”

For the first time Dean regrets sharing his theories regarding that slimy dickbag with Castiel. “For the last time Castiel, _I was sparring with Benny and Victor._ ”

Castiel purses his lips until they are bloodless and pale. “Very well,” he says at length. “Since you will not allow me to ensure your safety beyond this room, you will not leave it.”

Dean stares at him in disbelief. _“What?!”_

“You will stay here,” Castiel tells him. “In this room.”

Dean shakes his head in shock and denial. “You can’t lock me up in room like a misbehaving child!”

“I am your _king!”_ Castiel roars. “I can do as I please with you!”

Dean flinches at that, shocked into silence both at the volume and the words themselves. Castiel has never raised his voice to him before. For a moment the room is still. The doctor is still ignoring them. Dean clenches his jaw and glares at Castiel. “I suppose you can,” he spits.

 

***

 

Benny and Victor are not permitted within the bedchamber, and settle for glaring at Castiel as he comes and goes and muttering to each other darkly in crude saxon.

Dean ignores him. When Castiel speaks to him he pretends not to hear. When Castiel is the room he pretends not to see him. When Castiel, half-asleep, reaches for him in the colder hours of the night Dean shoves him away.

If there is one thing he cannot stand, it is being treated like a child. Castiel says he cannot trust him, that Dean _lies,_ but the only lies Dean has ever told to him have been as much for the king’s benefit as his own. Castiel is a decent person, Dean knows him well enough to judge it. If Dean had been truthful with him, told him how much it hurt when he came to his bed, Castiel would have stopped coming. And if Castiel does not lay with him there is no heir and if there is no heir there is no point to their marriage and if there is no marriage there is nothing sealing the treaty and if there is no treaty there is no alliance and Crowley will continue to raid across the borders unchecked and there will be no peace for Wessex _or_ Eden.

Dean has never lied _maliciously._

And what reason could Dean possibly have for lying now? About sparring of all things? About being attacked? It makes no sense. Castiel’s suspicion in as insulting as it is infuriating.

He shows no sign of relenting though, despite Dean’s continued recalcitrance. Days pass and Dean is still locked away in the tower room like some captive maiden. He reads every moldy old tome in the shelves, pens letter to Sam that he will never send and spends long hours staring out of the little windows at the men in the yards below.

He lasts ten days before he snaps.

He has eaten an early lunch and has a long afternoon of utter boredom stretching out ahead of him when he suddenly cannot bear to be in the room a moment longer. He ignores the bright silver byrnie Castiel gave him and instead dons his own heavy mail, a warm undershirt and riding trousers. He buckles on his sword, though he leaves his shield and spear.

Benny and Victor call out to him as he brushes past them and down the stairs, but they don’t physically try and stop him, just fall into step hissing to one another and looking around as if they expect a troop of Castiel’s men to appear and fall upon them at any moment.

People stare, but Dean ignores them and doesn’t pause long enough for anyone to speak to him. With his thegn on his heels, he marches straight for the stables.

Impala whinnies in greeting, butting her big head against him, as if asking where he’s been.

Dean murmurs apologetically to her and jumps up onto her bareback. Benny and Victor curse him – they can’t ride without saddles in their full armor, they’ll hurt their horses.

Dean nudges Impala out of her stall. “I’ll be back before sundown,” he tells them. “I’m going to ride up to the valley. Saddle up and meet me there if you want.”

“Dean!” Victor yells “Wait! You can’t just ride off by yourself!”

Behind him Benny is calling out to a stable hand.

Dean just flashes Victor an unrepentant grin and gripping Impala’s mane, kicks her into motion. It’s been months since he rode bareback and uncomfortable as it is, the connection to Impala, the feel of her coiled power between his legs like strength and freedom, is thrilling.

It’s midday and the yards and thoroughfares are busy, but Dean doesn’t care. He was practically born in the saddle and even at a fairly brisk pace he steers Impala through the throngs easily enough. The Edenish stare and some call out, greetings and questions, but Dean doesn’t slow. Once he’s out of the keep and on the pass road, he leans forward over Impala’s neck and kicks her into a canter. The pass is fairly wide, a well maintained paved road carved through the mountain centuries ago and there are few travelers to block Dean’s path. Soldiers and knights out doing he’s not sure what and stewards and peasants with carts of supplies for the Keep. Dean weaves around them, Impala’s hooves thundering beneath him.  He has to grip tightly with his legs to keep his seat but doesn’t even think of slowing her.

Benny finds him an hour later, walking Impala around the half-frozen lake in the middle of the hidden valley. She doesn’t need a lead. She follows on his heels happily enough without, stopping every now and then to paw at the ground and nibble at frozen grass.

“Victor was convinced you were lying when you said you were coming here and is probably half-way back to Wessex by now,” he says by way of greeting.

Dean huffs. “No. I just needed to get out of that place for a while.”

Benny nods. “I know.”

They are silent for a few minutes, frost crunching under Dean’s boots and the horses’ hooves. In the silence Dean finally let’s himself think of the repercussions of his escape. “Does the king know I’m gone?”

Benny huffs a laugh. “I think so. There were panicked knights all over the place when I rode out. I expect an entire garrison will come chasing after us any minute.”

Dean sighs and looks out across the lake, admiring the view of trees and fields and high mountains beyond. “I suppose he’ll put some of his own men on my door from now on,” he says.

“No doubt,” Benny agrees.

Dean steps up to Impala and pulls himself back up onto her broad back. “Well, I’d best make the most of my freedom while it lasts then huh?” He winks at Benny and nudges Impala off into a gallop.

Benny laughs and gives chase. “You’re gonna bounce off your horse with no saddle little aetheling!” he calls after him. “And the king will be angry if you skin your knees!”

A sour-faced Captain and a dozen knights waylay them not half an hour later, and Dean is herded back to the castle like a sheep that’s strayed too far from the fold. There is even more staring as he is escorted back across the keep, but the gossiping is well worth it in his opinion. He was going mad in that room.

He’s just washed his face and is pouring himself some wine, picking over the remains of lunch spread across the table, when Castiel bursts into the room like a disgruntled thunder cloud. Dean braces himself for the inevitable downpour and pastes an indifferent expression on his face. To his surprise Castiel doesn’t yell, he crosses the room in a few long strides, twists a hand in the cloth of Dean’s tunic and yanks him close. Dean raises a hand, thinking Castiel means to hit him – the way his face is twisted up certainly implies as much - but instead finds himself kissed.

At least, technically it’s a kiss, in actuality it’s more like an argument. Dean’s not expecting it, is entirely unprepared, and Castiel takes advantage, biting at his lips and licking his way into Dean’s mouth in a way that’s rough and proprietary and very different to the kisses they have shared previously. It’s like Castiel’s more interested in proving a point than actually kissing him. That thought, that Castiel is kissing him to teach him a lesson, jars Dean out of his shock and he’s suddenly _angry._ It pulses hot inside him, the urge to push Castiel aside, hit him, hurt him, show him that Dean isn’t the kind of person he can try and control with things like _kisses._

He grabs at Castiel’s tunic, fingers twisting in the cloth and pulling as he turns away from the kiss – if it can really be called that – and snaps his mouth shut. The look Castiel gives him, the calculating expectation there, gives him pause though. He doesn’t shove at him or yell. That seems like maybe the reaction Castiel is _trying_ to provoke, and Dean is so _angry_ that he does the exact opposite out of pure spite, intent on proving a point all of his own.

He fists a hand in Castiel’s hair and _pulls,_ enjoying the way his neck stretches out in a pale line, the way his eyes widen in shock and his breath catches in a tiny gasp, and then kisses him with all his anger. For a moment Castiel is still, a statue in Dean’s arms, mouth slack, shoulders tense, and then he’s suddenly warm and alive and it’s easy. Kissing him is easy. Dean barely has to think, his body remembers the slick slide of tongues and lips as if he and Castiel have done this a thousand times instead of once or twice.

But this isn’t Castiel pressing Dean down into soft furs and showing him pleasure, this is something else entirely. Dean doesn’t let himself get distracted by how warm Castiel is, or the pleasant scratch of his fingernails scraping across the nape of his neck, or how the stubble along his jaw rasps against his skin in a rough tingle. He’s proving a point, reminding Castiel that he’s not a child or a fool to be coddled and ordered about. He’s not going to be the one to break, he’s not going to back down, Castiel is.

With renewed intent Dean grabs at his ass and hauls him in closer, so they are hip to hip. The slightest hitch of Castiel’s breath is the only sign he’s affected, but when Dean rolls his hips into him and kisses him deep and long, Castiel presses closer and Dean feels the thickening length of him prodding into his stomach. Smug pride fills Dean at the sensation. He’s _won._ Castiel’s hard and wanting, betrayed by his body, and Dean is still in control of himself. Pulling out of the kiss, smirking, Dean takes a step back, feeling the table at his back. But before he has a chance to proclaim his victory, Castiel has followed him and he is biting at the corded muscle in the side of Dean’s neck and there is a _hand_ , not a bony hip, pressing into his crotch, cupping him through his trousers.

His dick doesn’t suffer from the same issues of pride as Dean’s ego and it takes precious little attention from Castiel’s palm to have him straining against the fastening of his pants. Castiel kisses him again, crowding him back and Dean finds himself giving way, letting Cas push him up onto the table, dishes and cups clattering around them and falling to the floor as Castiel makes a home for himself between Dean’s legs.

Somehow this has all gotten spectacularly out of hand. He’s awkwardly spread out on a table with his dick tenting his trousers and his elbow in a butter crock, but Dean rallies his wits and tries to turn the tables once more. He yanks Castiel close, lifting his hips to grind into him, making the table groan and protest at the movement. He’s wearing a tunic, not an elaborate Edenish robe thank the gods, so all Dean has to do is pull it up out of the way and then he’s attacking the fastenings of Castiel’s trousers. But instead of being shocked, Castiel seems to take it as a challenge or invitation and roughly returns the favor, pulling at Dean’s pants with fingers that seem far cleverer than his own. Long fingers and a warm palm curl around him and Dean jerks, a strangled cry on his lips.

It’s just as good as the last time Castiel touched him, too good to be real, his touch like nothing else on earth, like he is pulling heat and pleasure out of Dean’s very being. He doesn’t remember moving but he’s leaning back, braced on one arm, the other tight around Castiel’s neck where he’s draped over him. All thoughts of teaching Castiel a lesson are quickly forgotten because Dean’s not thinking much at all. Castiel’s skin is warm where he’s pressing their faces together, his breath hitching unevenly as he loses himself in the feel of _warm_ and _tight_ and so so good as Castiel’s hand pulls roughly at his dick. When Castiel kisses him again he ends up moaning into his mouth and letting out a noise that is humiliatingly close to a whimper.

Castiel presses closer, kissing Dean deeper and rocking against him. Dean lets him bear him down, stretches out on the table, turns his head, lifts his chin so he can bite at the tender skin beneath his jaw. It feels so good, Castiel above him, around him, the taste of him in his mouth and those too-blue eyes of his boring into him in a way that touches him deeper than the hand tight on his cock. He can’t look away, he’s stuck, trapped by Castiel’s gaze and the heat behind it he doesn’t understand. A surge of some feeling, some twisted confusing thing, flares up inside him as his pleasure peaks and Dean clutches at him. “Cas…!” he says, hating how desperate and needy he sounds, but Castiel seems to understand even if Dean does not. He says his name once, low and almost a command, and then Dean’s back is bowing and he’s gasping as his climax scours through him and he spills wet and throbbing into Castiel’s fist.

He’s still panting, reeling and trying to reorder his thoughts, make sense of what just happened, when Castiel groans his name. Eyes flicking up Dean takes in the flush to his cheeks and the sheen of sweat across his brow before he realizes that Castiel has taken himself in hand, his entire body rocking above Dean and he chases his own release.

Dean’s eyes skim down and his breath catches as he sees Castiel’s hand, wet with _his_ seed, striping his dark, blood-swollen cock. It’s not so different from watching his own hand - a curled fist working up and down, little beads of seed blotting out of his slit as the end approaches – but it feels very different. Dean can’t look away. Doesn’t look away until Castiel leans down and kisses him messily, and then all he can focus on is the way Castiel’s hand and the head of his dick are thumping into his stomach where his tunic has been pushed up. Dean arches into the contact and Castiel moans and pulls from his kiss, pulls up so he’s braced over him. His eyes skip up and down over Dean, his face, his mouth, his bare stomach and the trail of light hair leading down to the parted v of his trousers and his spent but still swollen dick.

Dean’s not sure quite what he feels at the attention, but when Castiel straightens and touches his lips with those clever fingers of his, Dean opens his mouth and lets them slip inside. It’s only when they are pressed warm and firm against the bed of his tongue that he realizes that he can taste himself on them. Castiel’s eyes are wide and he’s gasping, the movement of his hand fast and uneven. Experimentally, Dean sucks on the two fingers, catches at them between his teeth. Castiel gasps, his eyes glued to where Dean’s lips are wrapped around him.

The taste is faint, a bitter tang beneath the salt of sweat. It’s not _good,_ but it’s not that bad either.

Castiel stares, eyes wide. “Dean,” he says. “Oh _Dean-- ngh._ " And then he’s folding forward and Dean feels his seed, warm and wet, where it hits his stomach and hip, painting lines across his bare skin.

Castiel’s eyes shut and he is still, breathing heavily. Dean stares up at him, panting around the blunt warm shape of his fingers as his heart races in his chest, thundering against his ribs. When his wits return to him he turns his head, dislodging Castiel’s fingers. They leave a wet smear of salvia across his cheek.

The movement seems to jar Castiel from himself and he straightens. For a moment he looks down at Dean, and Dean looks back at him and it seems like something is being communicated between them but Dean has no idea what. Dean desperately wants to ask but cannot find the words.

After what can only be half a minute, Castiel steps back and pulls his clothing back into order. Dean braces himself on his arms and sits up, supposing he should do the same but his clothes are a mess. There’s smeared come on his trousers and more on his tunic where it’s bunched up around his chest, and of course he himself is in dire need of a bath, his skin painted with Castiel’s spend. The air feels cool against him where it is drying, makes his skin prickle. A distant part of Dean’s brain thinks it a waste, that no heirs will come from it.

He’s just pulled off his tunic and deciding if he should try and wash at the stand or call for a bath when Castiel speaks and breaks him from his thoughts.

“You will not leave this room,” he says.

Dean’s confinement and his subsequent escape seem so far away that it takes a second for him to catch up, but by then Castiel has already closed the door behind him and Dean is alone.


	11. Chapter 11

Victor doesn’t return until the next day, having ridden down the pass and back again, convinced Dean had run. He glares at Dean but still seems offended by the presence of the two Edenish knights that appear to guard Dean’s door.

Dean doesn’t see Castiel until the following evening. He waits, expecting him to try and creep in late after Dean should be sleeping, but when he wakes, the far side of the bed is unslept in. He spends all day having increasingly elaborate imagined arguments with the man, but he doesn’t come. Long after Dean’s evening meal has been cleared away and the keep has fallen silent, he is still alone in the room.

Castiel returns at some ungodly hour of the morning, letting frigid air beneath the covers as he slips under them. Dean tries to rally himself from sleep so he can yell at him or something, but he’s still mostly asleep and he fails. The next thing he knows the door is closing with a loud thunk as Castiel leaves the room hours later.

Dean pushes himself up on his elbows and looks around the chamber in the gray dawn blearily. There is the sound of muted movement coming from the shuttered windows and through the floor from below, but only the early morning shuffling of servants. The fire is low and there is no breakfast set out. Castiel has awoken and snuck out early to avoid Dean. He glares at the shut door for a moment then punches at his pillow before falling back down against the bedding, defeated for the time being.

His third day of renewed confinement passes slowly. He talks to Victor and Benny through the door. The Edenish guards - two knights in the fine armour and bright cloaks of the royal guard - refuse to let him open it more than a crack. They eye him warily when servants come with his meals and to bank his fire, like he is some wild creature that might leap out of the keyhole and attack them at any moment.

Castiel does not return to their bed the next night or the next. Dean wonders if he has taken another chamber just to avoid him, how long this bizarre and childish punishment will play out for. He thinks more and more of escape, though it would be much more difficult with the Edenish guards on his door and would probably only serve to anger Castiel further. So Dean tries to be reasonable. He waits. He spends his time alternating between utter listless boredom and seething white-hot anger. It is not only that he is insulted, it is that he has nothing to do. His only purpose in Eden is as the King’s Consort, his duty to provide him an heir and cement the alliance, but even that is apparently beyond him.

All he had to do was keep his big mouth shut and let Castiel get a child upon him, but it seems he’s failed at even that most simple purpose. They fight and Castiel avoids him and their bed. No doubt those who were against the marriage are delighted that there has been no ‘sullying’ going on of late. Dean, for all that he does not miss the pain and discomfort of laying with Castiel, left alone with nothing else to think on, grows more and more frustrated at both himself and Castiel. They have been married many months. Dean is recovered from his fever. Clearly the king has the inclination judging from how their ‘argument’ had turned. There should be an heir on the way by now. Instead they fight over _nothing_ , Castiel more concerned with keeping Dean locked up safe from imaginary foes than actually letting him do his duty, _be_ his consort.

He has been seething over the spiralling failure of his marriage when Castiel unexpectedly appears in their chambers. He he has finished his evening meal, is sitting at the table frowning into a cup of wine and picking at the scraps on his plate. Dean looks up in surprise as the door opens for him and Castiel returns his gaze with suspicious wariness, hesitating on the other side of the room, like he might turn and bolt for the door at any moment.

“I did not expect you,” Dean says, managing to sound almost flippant. As if Castiel’s absence has been of little concern to him.

“I was needed down the pass,” Castiel tells him. “The camps there do not run so smoothly as the barracks here.”

Dean nods stiffly, as if the knowledge that Castiel has been away from the keep, not just avoiding him, is not news to him or of any particular interest, even thought it makes some jealous little twitch in him unwind just a little. Stealing himself, he swallows and stares Castiel down. “I should not have ridden out without your permission,” he says, even though the words are a lie and he hates himself for saying them, has to bite at the inside of his cheek to keep his face clear.

Castiel blinks, his eyes narrowing in surprise or perhaps suspicion. After a moment of just staring, he replies. “Perhaps… I should have explained my reasons for restricting your movements more thoroughly. I was… presumptuous.”

It is not an apology, but it is almost one and certainly more than expected. Dean has no desire to discuss the matter further however, since he knows he will not be able to hold his temper if Castiel begins lecturing him. Instead he focuses on the other thing that has been irritating him, the one he can do something about – his guilt over shirking his duty.

He stands and crosses to his husband. Castiel eyes him warily, not unlike the guards on the door - as if he half expects Dean to lash out at him. Dean lifts a hand slowly and rests it upon Castiel’s shoulder. The king’s eyes track to the side, following the movement to where Dean’s fingers rest against his cloak, and then settle back curiously on Dean’s. He raises an eyebrow.

Dean swallows and steps closer, right into his space. He smells faintly of horse and not a lot else. Castiel sways a little on his feet, but his arms remain limp at his sides. He does not know how to appear seductive, so Dean settles instead for what he hopes is at least open and… willing? Castiel has never needed much in the way of encouragement before. A demonstration of interest is doubtless all that will be required. When he wets his lips Castiel’s eyes flick down to them and Dean takes this for a sign and leans forward to press his mouth to Castiel’s.

He has kissed him, done far more than that in fact, but his nerves seem to find initiating even the simplest brush of lips between them excruciating. His cheeks and ears feel warm and he hopes in the muted light of the fire and that his embarrassment and uncertainty is not plain. Castiel’s head tilts slightly, dry lips catching against Dean’s, and his hands lift a little, one catching at Dean’s wrist, the other at his hip.

Pushing down strange duelling urges to either push Castiel away entirely or yank him closer and turn the kiss into something far deeper and more like those warm wet exchanges Dean remembers from the first time Castiel kissed him, Dean lets the king guide him. It is soft, very soft, and Dean is not sure he likes it. That confusion propels him to speak when after a moment they part for breath.

“I am recovered from my fever,” he says, glancing aside to the bed.

Castiel stiffens, his grip tightening for a moment as something unpleasant flits across his face that Dean cannot place, and then he releases Dean and steps back, clearing his throat. “That… will not be necessary,” he says, looking everywhere but at Dean.

“What?” Dean blurts in confusion.

“I am fatigued,” Castiel says, turning aside and walking across to the wash stand.

Dean frowns at his back. Castiel does not _seem_ over tired and as far he knows men do not turn down offers of sex lightly. “Are you unwell?” he asks, because that is all that he can think of that might explain his reluctance.

“No,” Castiel tells him without turning around. “I simply wish to sleep.” His tone is not sharp, but it is apparent that the matter not up for discussion. Dean is not disappointed, if anything he is relieved, but he still confused.

He spends the following day switching between being certain that he has somehow ruined his marriage utterly and being just as sure that he is overreacting and Castiel was just tired from a long ride up and down the pass and not avoiding the marriage bed.

His attempts to reassure himself do not go to plan however. That evening Castiel is absent once more, and the next morning when Dean asks his Edenish guards if he had ridden down the pass again, he is told that he did not. Dean has significantly more trouble convincing himself Castiel is not angry with him, that something is not wrong, and that fact eats away at him. On top of his fears he is also irritated at himself for even _caring_ about what Castiel thinks. Dean has apologized and yet he is still locked up in the bed chamber. It is Castiel who should be worrying over Dean's temper, not the other way around.

Despite his annoyance at him, he is relieved when Castiel’s arrival wakes him from his slumber the following evening. He watches quietly as his husband strips and washes before donning a sleeping shirt and climbing into the tall bed. Dean waits for a few minutes, thinking he will perhaps reach for him, but he does not.

“Castiel?” he asks, eyes open and staring in the dark.

“Dean?” Castiel’s voice is low and rough, like he is already half asleep.

“Are you… fatigued?” Dean hates how awkward the wording is, but he can tell from the short intake of breath and consequent silence from the other side of the mattress that Castiel has understood his meaning.

“I…Yes,” he says. “I did not sleep last night.”

Dean licks his lips. “I had wondered,” he admits. “When you did not retire.”

Castiel hums in agreement then falls silent.

Dean cannot think of what else to say, so he does not say anything.

*

Dean thought he was going to go mad with boredom _before_.

Being locked in a room with literally _nothing_ to do is so much worse when he has to simultaneously try and _seduce_ the man who’s keeping him there. Inside he’s seething, a riot of ever increasing thwarted annoyance, but outwardly he has to be friendly and nice and – and charming? Just thinking on it is ridiculous. He is not some pretty maid to tempt and tease. He hardly even knows what he’s doing.

It’s humiliating. Demeaning. But the way he keeps getting rebuffed and gently set aside by Castiel who’s too tired, too busy or apparently just completely oblivious, is even worse.

He has no purpose. Nothing to do.  He has no men to lead, not battles to plan. He’s Castiel’s consort, that’s his role. The task that has been set before him is to provide the King of Eden with an heir and cement the treaty between their kingdoms. But he can’t even do that right.

Castiel seems to spend as many nights not sleeping, or at least not sleeping beside Dean, as he does actually resting. Dean makes himself approach him, makes himself touch and smile and more or less offer himself, but the king seems utterly disinterested. If Dean kisses him he will only return the gesture half-heartedly, a brush of lips and no more, and Dean feels stupid and clumsy for even trying. When he’s less subtle, when he more or less asks Castiel outright, he pleads tiredness or a need to suddenly be elsewhere.

But when he does share their bed, when he comes in late long after the castle has fallen silent and slides in beside Dean, he inevitably ends up touching him. In the darkest hours of the night, when they are both mostly asleep and the air in the chamber room is still and freezing Castiel reaches for him. He pulls Dean in close, tucks himself in tight against his back, arms around him and legs tangled with his, his breath warm against Dean’s neck where he murmurs in sleepy Enochian. It is not unpleasant. Castiel is warm.

It is not the first time it has happened when Dean wakes before dawn and finds the king pressed in a hard line against his backside. He swallows and lays still for a minute, his heart racing. It is the closest they have been since the argument that ended with angry kisses and Dean sprawled over the table with Castiel’s seed painted over his stomach. Castiel has one arm thrown over him, holding him tightly against the winter chill, but his breathing is deep and even – he is asleep.

Somehow that gives Dean the courage to move. He reaches back and grips Castiel’s hip. For lack of anything else to do, he just presses back against him a little, creates a gentle grinding pressure between them. After only a minute or so, Castiel sighs, pulls him closer and starts rocks into the movement of Dean’s hips. He feels harder than before and when his hand slides down to grip Dean’s hip, pull him more firmly into the roll of his body, when he stretches and breathes Dean’s name softly against the back of his neck, Dean thinks that perhaps this time his clumsy attempts at seduction will succeed. But then the Castiel’s hand strokes his thigh, down over the linen of his night shirt and then up underneath it. Dean shivers as Castiel’s fingers trail over bare skin, rucking the cloth up as he skims up his thigh, across the jut of his hipbone and then down to his crotch. Dean gasps and flinches as his fingers stroke across his soft prick.

Castiel freezes and then is sitting up, blinking and staring down at Dean in confusion. The bedding slides down off his shoulder and Dean shivers again at the sudden chill.

“Dean?” Castiel asks, voice rough with sleep. Dean can’t quite make him out in the dark, but he can see enough to see that he is frowning.

Panic has Dean sitting up and grabbing at him. He cannot let Castiel push him away again. He needs to give him his heir. He’s warm under Dean’s hands. Dean kisses him, not softly like he’s been trying, no instead he is insistent, licks and bites at Castiel’s lips until they open and then slides his tongue inside. Castiel seems to decide all of sudden that he _does_ like kissing Dean, because instead of pushing him away like he has been, he pulls Dean onto his lap kisses him so hard and deep his jaw begins to ache.

“Dean,” he says and then his hands are everywhere.

Dean is relieved more than anything. He returns the attention, touches Castiel and keeps kissing him. _We could do it like this_ he thinks, _with me in his lap_. Maybe it would not hurt so badly and he could kiss Castiel, that at least is nice. He is looking over Castiel’s shoulder, his fingers twisted in dark hair as he sucks and bites at Dean’s neck, trying to remember where the oil is, when Castiel suddenly freezes up again, goes statue-still against him.

Dean tugs on his hair so they are facing one another. “Cas?” Belatedly he realizes that Castiel has pulled him closer, that his hardness is pressed close where Dean is… not.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, sounding very tired.

Dean blinks at him, feeling awkward all of a sudden to be so close, more or less wrapped around him. “I... I was looking for the oil?”

Castiel inhales sharply through his nose and then nods. He doesn’t look happy though. He gently pushes Dean off his lap, pulls his arms from his shoulders. Dean frowns in confusion as he's settled back on the mattress. “On my knees?” he asks.

Castiel’s hand tightens where he is holding Dean’s shoulder before he lets him go and sits back, away. “No Dean,” he says and then after a moment, voice very quiet: “Go to sleep.”

He turns away from him, pulling the bedding back into order and then rolls on his side, leaving Dean staring at his back.

The room seems very quiet, Dean’s breathing too loud. There is a humiliating ache in the back of his throat and prickling heat behind his eyes. He swallows and curls on his side, squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to pretend he is alone. He did not think it possible, but being rejected in such a manner is somehow worse than when Castiel paid him overmuch attention. He feels pathetic, like a mangy dog begging for scraps. Worst of all is that he is _trying,_ trying very hard and it is not enough, or wrong. He is failing despite his best efforts and that is not something that has ever happened to him before. He has never been found… _lacking_.

But he is and Castiel does not want him.

***

By the time the winter solstice has come and gone, Dean finds himself wishing that Castiel would push him into the mattress and leave him bloody and aching. He would sooner nurse a tender backside than face the prospect of the thaws coming and there still being no child growing inside him, no heir to cement the alliance before the armies of Wessex and Eden unite against Purgatory. His father has sent no word to him, nor has anything from his uncle or brother arrived, but Dean does not doubt that Castiel and King John have been in regular communication. He has spied at least one West Saxon rider from his window, and Victor and Benny mention others.

Dean asks, politely, respectfully, for permission to move about the keep again. Castiel is equally polite in his refusals. He has more books brought to Dean though, and cards and dice and other such things as might keep him entertained, but it is small recompense. Dean spends much of his time sat in the doorway playing dice or cards with his thegn, the door cracked just enough so they can see one another and talk, the two Edenish guards standing off to one side watching over them.

Castiel also has the doctor visit him every few days. When she arrives she either throws open the shutters and tells him the room is 'stuffy!’, or shuts them tightly and says he will ‘catch a chill!’ before she prods and pokes at him for a while. To start Dean thinks she is checking on him because of the bruises from sparring, that Castiel was convinced there was some nefarious plot going on right under his nose, that Dean was being beaten, but they fade quickly – Dean’s always healed up fast – and she keeps coming.

She gives him teas and tonics to drink and prods at his stomach, peers under his eyelids, at his tongue, asks him for detailed accountings of everything that passes his lips.

When enlightenment finally comes to him, dread settles over Dean like a mantle.

Castiel _knows._

The doctor isn’t checking on him for injury, she’s looking for something else. A sign of whatever is wrong inside _._ Somehow the king knows that Dean is _broken._ That is why he shrugs off Dean’s timid hands in the night, why his clumsy attempts to get him into bed are so easily dismissed.

Castiel knows what Dean has long suspected, that Dean cannot give him children, that there is no point to laying with him. Perhaps when the doctor examined him when he was ill she noticed something?

The thought makes him feel like he might be sick it is so terrible. He remembers Castiel accusation that _he lies._

He doesn’t know what to do. There isn’t anyone he can speak of it to. Benny and Victor would listen, but what help could they offer? They would help him run away, which would only makes things worse, but that is about it.

Now that he knows to look for it, Dean notices the way Castiel looks at him when he thinks Dean can’t see. Stares at him out of the corners of his eyes. Dean doesn’t want to, but he can imagine what he must be thinking. Ugly thoughts. A king in his prime saddled with a course heathen boy for a husband. One that can neither please him like a woman or even give him children. A thing with no purpose. Dean can hardly bear to look at him when Castiel is in the room.

He is not stupid though, he focuses his thoughts on trying to think of some solution rather than wallowing. He paces across the chamber or sits at the writing desk and _thinks._ Castiel wants to see Perdition crushed as much as Dean’s father, he’s sure of that much. Dean thinks that is why he has not spoken to him about whatever the doctor has been whispering in his ear. Confronted him about his unsuitability as a consort.

There must be some way to both please Castiel and his father, but Dean cannot for the life of him think of it. Christians do not divorce, even in cases of barrenness. Castiel is stuck with Dean until one of them dies. Castiel does not seem the sort to have anyone assassinated, Dean has no real fear from him on that account. Even though Castiel might not want him for a husband, Dean thinks there is _some_ fondness for him there. Castiel has often been kind to him, treated him almost like a friend.

He could easily have been rid of Dean when his sickness struck, but instead he seemed honestly concerned and glad of his recovery. Of course that had been when he thought Dean still capable of providing him with heirs…

 _No,_ Dean tells himself. _Castiel is not a murderer._

He is a good judge of character and he knows that Castiel would never consider ridding himself of Dean in such a manner. Even though, really, it might be his best option.

If he were a colder man, waiting until Crowley was defeated and then arranging for Dean to come to some tragic, _accidental_ , end would be the simplest and cleanest solution to Castiel’s problem. He would be free to marry again, someone capable of giving him an heir, and King John would have no cause to blame him. And even if there was suspicion and relations between Wessex and Eden cooled, without Perdition nipping at his heels, their alliance would not be of any great import anymore. They could go back to quiet mutual disdain.

Dean doubts he is the first to think of such a scenario through. He is sure someone will suggest it to the king when his barrenness becomes more widely known. Castiel is too noble though, he will not allow such a thing. He will name Anael his heir in full, marry her to some royal cousin or Lord, and Dean will live out his days as a pariah. The misshapen princes foisted off onto Eden by the treacherous Saxon king. He will be despised and hated for the trick played upon Castiel. No one will believe that King John did not know, (but how could he?), that he gave Dean to Castiel in good faith.

Dean tries, but there really is no way out that he can think of.

The best Dean can hope for is to be sent away. Perhaps he can go live with the mysterious Prince Gabriel in exile.

After days spent worrying himself half-mad, he eventually decides that a more irrational approach might end up better for them both in the long run.

When Crowley has been defeated, Dean will divorce Castiel.

The Edenish will reject it on behalf of their Christian god, but in Wessex it will be accepted. Dean could even remarry if wanted, though that would perhaps be too great an insult.

There had been no talk of divorce in any of the old Edenish books Dean’s become so well acquainted with of late, but there had been some mention of _annulment._ A marriage being undone like it never was. The example Dean had found was not particularly relevant – a prince who married a maid only to discover the next morning that she was an imposter, not the girl he had been promised – but then again, he is not the prince Castiel had been promised.

Castiel had been promised a young, healthy consort fit to bear his heirs. Dean was not that. If the marriage and wedding could be made to be a lie, a trick played upon the king, perhaps the Edenish would accept Dean’s divorce as an annulment. Simply strike all record of Dean from their history as if he’d never been.

Of course the problem with that is that someone had to be doing the lying. The tricking. King John is the obvious answer, but that would defeat the whole purpose, would threaten to plunge the two kingdoms into another war the moment the first was settled. If it were _Dean_ that was the deceitful party, he alone aware that he entered the marriage under false pretenses, then… then it might work.

Dean would be hated, but he would not be stuck in Eden without purpose, nothing more than a tempting target just waiting to be cut down to clear the way for a new, more suitable _Edenish_ queen or consort. Instead he could go home to Wessex, perhaps in shame, but alive. His father, his uncle, Sam - they would know the truth and that would be enough.

Castiel is bleary-eyed and exhausted looking when he comes to bed, late, the day that Dean has come to his decision. Dean lays beside him in their huge bed, practically able to _feel_ his husband worrying. He thinks about speaking to him, about explaining his plan, but it will be easier to put into motion if Castiel thinks it is all true. That Dean lied to him, only played at the chaste innocent. If he is angry, if he feels betrayed, that will only serve to help, to make him more likely to push for his Christian annulment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shorter chapter i know, but the next one should be up fairly quick.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This is the chapter that the 'brief infidelity' tag applies to for those people who wanted a heads up.
> 
> Also: big thank you to [Christi ](http://watchingpornwithcas.tumblr.com/), [Moira](http://moosefeels.tumblr.com/), [Rowan](http://highermagic.tumblr.com) and the other cuties at the omega network for feedback with this chapter. You guys are my porny deancas muses.

With his thoughts sorted and his mind made up, Dean finds the room even smaller. More confining. He feels like a man locked in a cell - a very comfortable cell, but a cell none the less - awaiting judgment. Out of the narrow windows he watches the Edenish soldiers drill in the courtyard below, red-cheeked and cloudy-breathed in the winter chill, and tries not to think too hard.

Castiel does not return to the room that evening, nor the next.

Eventually Dean crumbles and calls through the keyhole. His Edenish guards, softened up slightly after weeks more or less exclusively in Victor and Benny’s company, deign to open the door to speak to him.

Dean thinks perhaps they pity him. Usually the thought would anger him, he despises being thought of as weak, but in this incident he finds he doesn’t blame them - he is a pitiful thing - and besides, he can use that to his advantage.

“I want to visit the stables,” he tells them. “See to my horse.”

Of course all that gets him is a lot of frowning, a curt ‘I’m afraid not your highness’ and the door shut in his face.

The next time he tries he warms them up first with requests for unrelated gossip and conversation. He finds out that Castiel has ridden down the pass with some of his Lords, that Sir Balthazar has arrived with his garrison and has been apparently been privately entertaining both Lady Hester and Sir Samandiriel in his chambers, (with visits in between from one particularly attractive scullery boy), and that Lord Uriel and he have already almost come to blows at least thrice. He asks the guards about themselves and is told they are called Sir Ion and Sir Ephraim respectively, are both from noble houses of middling rank and consider their positions as royal guards a great honor. It is information he already knew courtesy of his thegn, but he feigns interest and his overtures of friendship seem to both confuse and flatter the two knights.

This time instead of asking to see Impala, he instead asks _them_ to go check on her, says he’s worried about her stuck in the strange underground stables since she’s not used to them. Benny and Victor back him up, acting suitably concerned and giving almost plausible reasons for why _they_ cannot go see to her.

The next morning Sir Ephraim gives a very thorough report on Impala’s condition, Ion nodding along. Dean hangs on every word and thanks them profusely. Ephraim blushes a little at the praise and Ion becomes gruff in embarrassment. Dean manages not to smile in victory. Victor catches his eye from behind their backs and raises an eyebrow curiously, obviously wondering what Dean is plotting at. Dean just shakes his head a little.

It takes almost a week, but Castiel is still out of the keep, Dean is a model of politeness and with Benny and Victor  following his lead, he eventually gets the two knights to agree to escort him down to the stables for a quick visit himself albeit, very reluctantly and suspiciously.

Their fears are misguided. Dean has no intention of running. He’s just so utterly bored that he’d willingly go through a lot more for the chance to stretch his legs. Getting to see Impala is just an added bonus to getting out of his accursed bedchamber.

Ephraim leads the way, Ion taking up the rear, with Dean, Benny and Victor sandwiched in-between them. They aren’t sneaking exactly, but all five men are silent and treading quietly, and Dean notes Ephraim avoids the busier hallways and thoroughfares.

It’s mid-morning and the keep is fairly busy. People stare, pausing mid-step as they catch sight of Dean and his twitchy-looking guards. Dean keeps his head down, tries to looks as uninteresting as possible. The two Edenish knights glower around, as if daring anyone to ask where they are taking him while Benny and Victor contrive to look unobtrusive and of course fail utterly. They lead him down through the narrow service corridors where the only people around to see are servants and soldiers, no one with the authority to ask what they are doing. It’s a longer walk, winding along dusty hallways and through one of the lower dining halls, but eventually they cross the flagged courtyard and make their way into the gaping cavern of the stable.

It’s dark, lit mostly by the holes cut into the roof high above. Despite the gloom of the place there are few lanterns owing to the risk of fire. Dean remembers exactly where Impala’s stall is however and makes his way towards it unerringly. The stalls are full and they pass a few people tending to their mounts, squires and stablehands for the most part, though as they pass the tack rooms in the middle section of the stable, they come across two Edenish knights in the same fine armor and bright cloaks as Sir Ion and Sir Ephraim. Royal Guards.

Dean hesitates and his men pause, the two sets of guards eyeing each other off suspiciously and Benny and Victor loitering awkwardly behind, attempting to look casual. Before either of the newcomers can speak, demand to know why Dean is in out of his chamber, a loud moan punctuates the quiet air of the stable, cutting through the soft background noise of horses shifting in their stalls and the chatter of the men tending them.

Everyone freezes.

Dean frowns, his thoughts tripping up because something about that voice… is familiar.

He steps forward and one of the Edenish guards moves to block him, but it’s too late, Dean can see past him and into the open door of the tack room he and the other knight were apparently standing guard over. Dean’s eyes widen and he stares.

Whatever he was expecting to find, it wasn’t this.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been so honestly shocked in his entire life.

It’s Castiel. Castiel in clothes rumpled from riding, leaning back against the wall of the empty room, bridles and tack hanging neatly to either side of him. Castiel with his tunic twisted aside and his trousers undone. His head is thrown back, his cheeks are flushed pink and as Dean stares his throat bobs as he swallows back some quiet little moan or sigh. Dean recognizes the sound and the expression on his face after months sharing his bed with him, but he barely registers that, what truly stuns him is the fact that Castiel’s hand is fisted in the hair of some tow-headed boy.

Dean can’t believe what he’s seeing. For a split second he thinks he’s seeing things, that it’s not Castiel, it’s some cousin, a trick of the dim light confusing him. But a moment passes and it’s still Castiel, it’s still Dean’s _husband_ , the noble Edenish king, getting his dick sucked in the stables. It’s so… so _crass_ and unexpected it’s almost laughably absurd… Except it’s not funny at all and that is the truly dumbfounding part. It _hurts._

Until that moment Dean had been unaware he felt any sort of possession or ownership over Castiel, but the surge of intense jealousy, hurt and anger that explodes white-hot and _molten_ within him, scorching him from inside out, dispels that delusion instantly.

He must make some noise, or perhaps one of the guards does, because Castiel’s eyes snap open in alarm and Dean feels a vicious stab of pleasure at the shame and embarrassment that instantly flares there.

“Dean!” His voice is hoarse and Castiel flounders, straightening from his slump against the wall. The boy sucking his cock is knocked aside and lands in an inelegant sprawl at his feet.

Dean stares down at him dispassionately. He’s not a fool. He knows it’s Castiel who deserves his anger, (if he can even claim that right), not whomever has taken Dean’s place, but he can’t help but glare a little. The boy – no, _man –_ for now Dean can see his face it’s plain that he’s actually closer to Castiel’s age than Dean’s – stares up at him in red-faced mortification, lips and chin shiny and wet. It takes only a split second for the obvious to occur to him. He looks like Dean.

The eyes are wrong, dark instead of green, and the hair is too yellow, but the resemblance is plain, the shape of his jaw and lips an echo of what Dean sees in the polished mirror above the washstand each morning. Dean looks up to Castiel. His husband has flushed bright red and is clearly trying to compose himself, fumbling with his trousers to cover his stiff prick.

Dean has always been able to put together many parts, assemble a puzzle into a whole with ease. It’s why his uncle gave him command so young, why he excelled leading his men on the battlefield. He does so now in an instant, taking note of Castiel, the shoddy doppleganger sprawled in the straw at his feet, the stables around them and way his husband has acted these last few months and the picture he had formed in his mind, the one he had been so _certain_ of just minutes earlier when he walked into the stables, cracks and reassembles itself into something quite different. He’s not sure if he’s disappointed or offended or pleased. “ _This_ is what you want?” he asks Castiel, not bothering to disguise the sneer in his tone.

He stalks forward right into Castiel’s space. The dicksucking stablehand scrambles backwards out of his way. Dean spares him a single withering glance. “ _Leave._ ”

The man nods and then is up and gone, face a mask of warring terror and relief. Dean doesn’t turn to watch him go, instead he settles his gaze upon Castiel, who has apparently finally gathered his wits. “This is no concern of yours,” he snaps, all false pride and indignation, trying to cover his embarrassment.

Dean reaches down and grabs at his wrist where Castiel is still fumbling with the fastenings on his riding trousers. He lets out a little huff of shock and when Dean slips his fingers past and takes hold of his dick, Castiel gasps, eyes widening almost comically. He is tacky and wet with the stablehand’s spit and the thought of that mouth there, the slip of a stranger’s spit under Dean’s palm, is disgusting. Dean ignores his revulsion and strokes firmly, leaning forward so they are slotted together, pinning Castiel against the wooden wall. He lets out a shivery sort of noise and grabs at Dean, his face twisted in confusion, but he doesn’t push him away.

Dean is perfectly aware of the Edenish guards and of Benny and Victor standing without, probably able to see exactly what is going on, or at any rate hear enough to guess, but he doesn’t care. He is livid and besides, Benny for one has seen far worse. What does he care if they see Castiel with his pants around his ankles?

“In the stables Cas?” he asks.

Castiel does not reply. He is tense and still, his face slack with shock.

Dean leans in closer, so his body is pressed against Castiel’s shoulder to thigh in a warm line, and shifts his thigh, grinding against him a little. He lowers his voice, speaking just past a whisper and right into Castiel’s ear. “Easier to pretend that was me on my knees with the stink of horses around?”

Still Castiel is silent, but Dean feels a fresh blot of moisture slip over his fingers as he slides his fist up and down his length, feels it harden further in his palm. “You want that Cas?” He think of Castiel’s fingers in his mouth, of his seed hot where it splashed across his stomach. Dean can’t give him his heirs, but apparently there are other things he wants from Dean. Things he _can_ give him. Dean just doesn’t understand why he hasn’t been taking those things when offered. He tightens his grip, jacking at Cas as if it was his own dick in his hand, hard and fast. The wet noise of it seems over-loud and indecent in the relative hush of the stable. “You want me to get down on my knees and let you fuck my mouth husband?”

Castiel hisses angrily at the crude words. “ _No,”_ he insists, but his hips jerk in rough little movements, driving his cock into the circle of Dean’s fingers, and one of his hands is gripping Dean’s shoulder tightly, holding him close. Dean smiles.

“No?” he parrots back, mocking, leaning a little closer and pressing a kiss that is more teeth than anything else into the soft skin just above Cas’s collar. “Are you sure?” It’s easier to speak with his face buried there where he doesn’t have to meet Castiel’s eyes, doesn’t have to think about what they are doing. “Don’t want my lips wrapped around you?” He twists his fist a little, slides up tight and slow, “My tongue?” thumbs at the wet slit of Cas’s dick, pressing in like he might if he really was licking him, “Don't wanna spill down my throat? Make me swallow you down and taste you?” Dean doesn’t really know what he’s saying, is just repeating things overheard at camp, crude stories told by his thegn about their conquests - anger more than anything driving them from his mouth - but Castiel gasps and Dean knows that sound, knows from the way he’s panting softly that he’s close. He’s turned his body into Dean’s, pressing into him, rocking against him, clutching at him.

Dean thinks of the last time he saw Castiel like this, of fingers smearing wet across his cheek, and inspiration strikes. “Or maybe you wanna paint my face with it?” he muses. “Mark me up like your dirty little heathen slut?”

And that does it apparently. Castiel gasps like he’s been winded and thrashes, pulling Dean in tight and coming warm and wet all over his hand.

Dean lets him have a moment, lets him slump boneless in his arms, then pulls back.

Castiel blinks at him in shock and awe, like he’s never seen him before in his life.

“Did you kiss him?” Dean demands, caging Castiel in between his arms.

Castiel shakes his head mutely.

“Good.”

Dean kisses him deep and hard. He’s not sure exactly what game he is playing, where this jealous, _angry_ , bravado is coming from, but it seems to be working, so he doesn’t fight it. Castiel is limp and soft in his arms. He opens for him instantly and lets Dean kiss him roughly, responding in kind, but following his lead, letting Dean lick into his mouth like he’s claiming him, _fucking him_ with this tongue. Like Dean is the king and Castiel is the consort, not the other way around. When he pulls back he still looks dazed.

Dean wipes his hand off on Castiel’s tunic, smearing Cas’s mess all over the fine cloth. The king makes no move to stop him. Dean doesn’t realize he’s going to speak until the words are already spilling out of him, low and threatening. “No more of that,” he tells Castiel. “You’re _my_ husband, only _I_ get to touch you.”

Castiel nods dumbly.

Dean stares hard at him for a moment that drags and when he steps back, Castiel fumbles with the wall behind him, propping himself up like he doesn’t trust his feet. When he heads past the guards they all studiously look anyway but at him. His thegn and knights fall in step behind him silently. Benny is bright red and won’t meet his eye but Victor shoots him a look that’s almost proud, impressed at the very least and maybe faintly amused, when he leaves them guarding his door. In contrast Ion and Ephraim both seem to have been shocked back into rigid Edenish formality.

***

When he retires to their chamber that evening, Castiel blushes and fumbles.

Dean watches him from where he sits at the writing desk, anger still simmering underneath his outward calm. He has spent the afternoon thinking things over and rather than cool his temper, he’s even angrier than he was earlier. He doesn’t rise to greet Castiel politely as he would have done the night before. Instead he glares.

All these weeks Dean has been trying to coax Castiel into their bed, has been having one long meltdown over the wretched state of their marriage and the repercussions of that, and Castiel has been doing gods know what with gods know who. Knights, maids, whores? Castiel might have been fucking his way through the entire keep and Dean has no way of knowing.

It’s humiliating. He wonders how much gossip has spread. The Prince Consort locked away in a goddamn tower while the King rolls around in the hay with stablehands and whoever else catches his fancy _._ Dean thinks of Castiel’s promise to be a better husband to him and wants to laugh in his face. And then punch it.

The fact that Castiel seems mortified at being caught in his adultery is little recompense for what feels very much like a betrayal, despite the nature of their marriage. On top of all that, Dean feels stupid for having never considered it. He just blindly assumed Castiel would be faithful to him, which with hindsight seem ridiculously naïve.

“You said you had never lain with a man,” he says, eyeing Castiel suspiciously. “Was that a lie to make me feel better at my own inexperience?”

Castiel clears his throat and looks at Dean, his face twitching as he struggles to keep his expression neutral. “It was not a lie.”

Dean purses his lips. “So what has brought about this change then?” he asks, trying to stay calm but feeling spiteful anger rise up hot within him regardless. “You will not touch me but instead whore around with servants?”

The muscle in Castiel’s jaw twitches as he clenches his teeth. “I do not _whore around._ ”

Dean lifts his hands in mock surprise. “Oh? Then what was that?” he demands. “You have _fallen in love_ with the poor stable hand?”

Castiel’s eyes flash at Dean’s mocking tone. _“No.”_

“Did you fuck him?” The thought of adding _bastards_ into the mess that is their marriage makes Dean feel like he might throw up.

 _“No!”_ Castiel hisses indignantly, like he can’t believe he would even suggest such a thing.

Dean doesn’t understand how he can sound so offended. It’s hardly an unfair conclusion to jump to given what Dean had found him doing. He tries to calm himself, though, to remain reasonable. Theirs is not a love match after all, if Castiel wishes to keep mistresses or fool around with servants Dean cannot begrudge him that. As long as he is sensible about it. As long as Dean doesn’t _walk in on it._ He takes a breath and keeps his voice cool as he is able. “If you wish to… seek your _pleasure_ in the stables I will not stand in your way _your majesty_. But you married me to give you an heir and I can’t do that on my own.”

Dean meets his eyes and waits. Now, if he is the honest, _decent_ man Dean had thought him to be, Castiel will confront him on his barrenness, on whatever the doctor has discovered and they will, hopefully, be able to untangle the godawful mess they have ended up in the middle of before it becomes even more twisted.

Castiel’s face clears, the tension draining out of it. “Oh,” he says, like he’s just remembered something.

 _“Oh?”_ Dean echoes.

“I had thought I had spoken to you of this?”

“Your sudden interest in stablehands?” Dean asks, voice dripping with scorn. “How you propose to get an heir without sleeping with me? _No.”_

Castiel presses a hand to his forehead, rubbing at the skin beneath the plain circlet he wears for a moment before pulling it off and tossing onto the bed carelessly. His hair is left mussed and pointing in all directions. All the prickling defensiveness of moments earlier seems gone entirely from him. Dean frowns and shifts in his seat, angling his chair to face him, waiting. Castiel takes a deep breath before he speaks. “After your illness, there was much speculation about you.”

“I’ll bet there was,” Dean mutters. Zachariah and his buddies had probably been positively gleeful.

Castiel ignores the remark. “Much of it was as to be expected when a royal consort is struck down so publicly. There were rumors that you were dying, that you were with child, that you had some strange illness, that you had been poisoned.” Castiel waves his hand in a dismissive gesture at the rumors. “But many, many more than I anticipated, seemed to find the prospect of your demise a great relief.”

Dean snorts. “ _Shocking,”_ he drawls sarcastically.

Castiel shoots him a look, frowns. “It _was_ shocking,” he says. “I… You are aware that there are some who spoke against our match, who have even taken action to see it ended?”

“Zachariah for one,” Dean agrees.

Castiel inclines his head. “He is where I can keep an eye on him, it is those who have kept the depth of their true feelings from me that worry me.” He glances about the cluttered chamber, at the piles of books stacked on the writing desk. “You have made something of a study of Edenish history of late.” Only because Castiel had kept him locked in a room with literally _nothing_ else to do save read and mope and make apparently pointless plans. “Have you read much on our recent history?” Castiel asks. “On the coming of the horde and the fall of the east?”

Dean shakes his head. Lord Joshua’s collection is seriously lacking. There’d probably been books about that back at the palace, but there’d also been epics about legendary Edenish kings and knights that had been far more interesting. Dean had avoided the ‘boring tome’ section of the Royal Library as much as he could. But he’d heard enough from his father and theolder men growing up.

“Crowley and the horde came across the sea and King Michael fought them in Eden as King Henry fought them in Wessex,” Dean recites. “They pinned him in Purgatory and he’s been stuck there ever since.”

“Yes, King Henry and King Michael both fought fiercely when the horde descended upon our lands,” Castiel agrees, “--but it is _Anglia_ that Crowley now holds, it is an Edenish palace he keeps as his seat. It is my people he has enslaved and tortured into submission.”

It is such a looming threat that it’s easy to forget that only a few short decades ago, Perdition had not even existed. Part of it had been Essex, but the lion’s share, the fertile lands in north, that had all belonged to Eden. But now Dean thinks on it he remembers - that and other things; the ruined bits of Edenish plate the raiders and cursed men wear and their garbled tongue – Saxon and Edenish twisted up into an ugly spitting drawl. He thinks of the quaint Edenish villages and farmlands he has ridden through since he was sent North, of the peasants with their bright neckerchiefs and bonnets. He wonders how many of the raiders and black-eyed cursed men he has cut down over the years were once like that. Should have been like that still. It is not something he has ever considered before, that Crowley’s raiders themselves are perhaps also his victims.

“Your grandfather King Henry succeeded where my father failed and all know it,” Castiel tells him bitterly. “Oh they speak of your gods, say the horde left you West Saxons to your lands because you are their heathen kin, but they did not spare the _East_ Saxons. The truth is your rídend shield walls turned them north. Why batter themselves to pieces against the rock of Wessex when Eden waited, soft and proud?”

Dean has never really thought of it like that, but it makes sense. He knows if he had a choice between making war on Edenish knights or the Rídend of Wessex, he would make the same choice, and not out of vanity.  What he _doesn’t_ understand is how this has anything to do with Castiel getting his dick sucked in stables. Breaking the vows he’d made before his god to be faithful to Dean.

“There is bitterness and jealousy between our kingdoms,” Castiel continues. “But not all are blinded by it, and I thought when I treated with your father, that those in my court still caught up in that hatred, were a minority. I have learned since then that I was wrong.” He is silent for a moment, frowning in thought. Dean is about to ask him how this impromptu history lesson has _anything_ to do with their earlier conversation when he speaks again. “Ours was not the first match proposed between our Houses.”

Dean’s shock distracts him. _“What?”_

“When your mother Queen Mary was murdered, my aunt Raphael would have been around your age,” Castiel tells him. “Seventeen or eighteen, I don’t recall exactly. At any rate, the war was not going well. It was your grief-stricken father’s retaliation in the south holding all of Crowley’s attention that kept our borders from being overrun entirely. Raphael came to my father and said that we should forge a treaty with Wessex, that she would marry your father and that with our armies combined the horde could be pushed back into the sea.”

Dean stares at Castiel dumbly, trying to reconcile the cool proud Princess Raphael with his _father._ It’s absurd it’s… he ponders it a moment longer, remembers his father and Raphael in deep earnest conversation, their quiet respect for one another… and actually… it might have worked. He could see them getting along well enough in a political marriage. Raphael is nothing like the mother he barely remembers, but she is intelligent, pragmatic and fearsome on a horse. His father might well have considered it, especially if it got him the men he needed to take Crowley’s head. It is highly unlikely he would ever have _loved_ Raphael, but been satisfied with her as his queen? Yes.

“Father would not hear of it of course,” Castiel continues, pulling Dean from his introspection. “An Edenish Princess – his own adored half-sister _-_ marrying a West Saxon barbarian? Unthinkable, even if John was a king. And so Raphael married an Edenish Lord and the border fell back further and further each year.” Castiel huffs out a bitter snort. “And now half King Edlund’s kingdom gone. Lost for my father’s pride.”

He looks at Dean then, except it’s as if he’s not really looking at _Dean_ , but at something else, as if he is a cipher for something far larger than himself. “When your father sent me word of an alliance, I swore I would not make the same mistake he made. My aunt approved, as did _most_ of my most trusted Lords and kin. I would take one of King John’s sons as my consort and there would be lasting peace between our kingdoms after we had dealt with Crowley and the invaders once and for all.” He pauses and his expression softens, becomes thoughtful. “I expected you to be rough and uncouth. All the things my father said you West Saxons were. Barbarian horse lords. Blood-soaked pagans who worshiped devils.”

Dean crosses his arms and fixes him with an unimpressed glare. So far he does not think much of Castiel’s explanation for his adultery. A history lesson, (even an interesting one), and some insults to his kin and countrymen do not an apology make.

Castiel crosses the room to hover beside Dean, shifting awkwardly and tapping his fingers against the wood of the writing desk in a nervous tic.  Dean looks up at him warily and waits. Castiel’s eyes are wide, his expression open and earnest. If he is lying he is doing a very good job at looking sincere.

“Your father assured me that you were young and strong and as long as you were capable of providing me an heir, I allowed myself to speculate little upon you,” Castiel says, then crouches down so their faces are level. Dean shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the proximity and the way Castiel is looking at him. It makes it very difficult to stay mad. He frowns down at his hands in his lap so he doesn’t get distracted. “But then you came… and you were _nothing_ like I expected.”

He’s very close, and Castiel’s voice has gone all soft and awed, emotions and _feelings_ right there and plain when he is normally so cool and reserved. Dean’s eyes dart up without his permission and he finds Castiel staring at him in a way that makes blood rush to his cheeks. “Tall like your father,” he says, “And strong yes, but…” He presses a hand hesitantly to his face and somehow freezes Dean with just that simple touch, his spine locking into place and his breath catching in his throat. “So _lovely._ ”

Dean has to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat as Castiel’s thumb strokes gently across his cheek. He has no idea what is happening. One moment they are discussing Castiel’s betrayal, the next Edenish history and now… he tries to remember his anger, but it is so hard with Castiel looking at him like that, like he really means everything he says. Like he thinks Dean is something special and good _._ His thumb is warm where it strokes across Dean’s cheekbone with what feels like tenderness and Dean’s eyes burn.

“It did not seem real, that _you –_ green-eyed and golden – were the Saxon aetheling I had been promised,” he continues softly. “I had expected to be shamed, ridiculed before the court as I married a barbarian to buy Saxon spears and riders, but instead you walked down the aisle like some radiant blasphemy and then--” He swallows loudly. “-- and then you were _mine._ ” Castiel’s fingers dig in slightly, holding him firm as that thumb calloused from the sword slides down his cheek and presses against his mouth. Confusing heat and anxiety pulse through Dean’s body, his heart beating too fast and loud against ribs.

“It was not obligation that brought me to your chamber every night Dean. Nor want of an heir. I told myself that it was, that it was duty that drove me into your bed, but that was a lie.” Dean does not remember moving, but one of his hands is twisted tight in Castiel’s tunic and the king is kneeling before him, so close they are almost embracing, so close Dean can make out every dark eyelash and feel the warmth of his breath. “I was married once before. A match chosen by my father. Lady Daphne was beautiful, good and kind - all a man could wish for - but what I felt for her...” He takes a breath. “What I feel for you… I… There is no comparison Dean. You… you are not like anyone I have ever known.” His voice has gone low and raw, painful to listen to. His eyes are too blue, too wet and too close. Dean shuts his so he does not have to see. They sting in the dark.

“I would _choose_ you Dean,” Castiel says. “Above any other.” The words, the tone of his voice, they have Dean tensing for he does not know what. It feels as if he’s swallowed something still alive, like there’s an eel twisting around in his stomach. At some point he’s leaned forward and Castiel is so close Dean feels his words in breath against his skin. “I have never wanted anyone the way I want you Dean. I do not know what to do with it. I try and I just – I just keep hurting you.”

What Castiel is saying finally becomes clear to Dean and the eel in his stomach wiggles even more exuberantly. He opens his eyes, makes himself look. “You _want_ me?” he asks in disbelief, because despite everything, the stablehand with his face, Castiel’s worry and fear when Dean had been ill, his kisses and long looks, Dean cannot quite dislodge all the _other_ memories. Their wedding night and all the times that followed, when Castiel pressed Dean down on his belly and used him like a thing and not a person, when Castiel _hurt_ him. Memories that are bright and ugly and cut when he thinks on them.

The kisses, they are few and far between. And only twice, _twice_ had Castiel ever cared to see to Dean’s pleasure, to treat him like a lover and not just a warm, breathing receptacle for his seed.

Castiel sighs and leans towards him, pressing his forehead against Dean’s in a gesture that feels so warm and _real_ it manages to jar Dean from bitter recollection, makes it difficult to remember that the man before him now is the one from his wedding night and every awful night after. It is soft and sweet, a touch with no agenda, a caress. It feels like something. Sweet and honest. Like a hug from Sam, or a kiss from Lady Ellen. Like Castiel truly cares for him, and not just because Dean is his. He thinks back to their conversation in the tent after his fever, how his words had saddened Castiel, how Castiel had pulled him close and tried to comfort him. He feels the same honesty here.

“Of course I want you,” Castiel says. Dean does not understand all that is going on, but it feels like Castiel is trying to tell him something with more than his words and he wants desperately to understand. He lets Castiel draw him closer and the king hums quietly, pleased. When he speaks again it is soft but Dean can hear every word, feel them breathed against his face. “How is it possible that someone as… as _wonderful_ as you could doubt that?”

Dean wets his lips to speak and Castiel sighs, fingers sliding through his hair and stroking across his scalp in a slow massage. He feels dizzy with how close they are, the smell of Castiel - orris root and salt, the faint sweetness of wine lingering on his breath – and the things he has said. Though they have done nothing but talk, he feels the ache of desire beginning, the throb of his pulse between his legs growing steady and insistent. He wonders if Castiel is trying to seduce him, if this is real or something he doesn’t understand, a distraction from what Dean had walked in on in the stables. Some game being played upon him. He tries to gather his wits. “If you want me,” he asks, and he can _almost_ feel the brush of Castiel’s lips against his as he speaks, a phantom warmth. “If I am so _lovely,_ then why do you ignore me? Why do you lock me up and leave me here alone to go play with stableboys?”

He does not like how bitter and hurt his voice comes out.

Castiel groans in frustration and yanks Dean to the edge of his chair before burying his head against his shoulder and pulling him into a proper hug. Dean squirms a little at the unexpected gesture. “You are so _distracting_ ,” he mumbles against Dean’s neck. For a minute he is still, holding Dean in a strange embrace, and then he sighs and straightens, leaning back on his heels. He does not release Dean entirely however. There is a hand on his shoulder and another on his thigh just above his knee. “After your illness,” Castiel says, “I realized how foolish it would be to go off to war and leave you pregnant with an heir.”

Dean frowns in confusion, his head clearing a little. That was the entire point as far as he was aware. “What?”

“If I die, I could not possibly leave you, the kingdom and any child of ours in a worse position,” Castiel tells him. “I do not know who of my kin would stand beside you, I thought I did, but I have been proven wrong. I want an heir to prevent another war over the throne; this would all but ensure one.”

“Because I’m not Edenish,” Dean says.

Castiel nods. “Because you are not Edenish. Because you are not Christian. That is why I have not lain with you. That and…” He trails off and a pained expression flickers across his face for a moment. “ _Other_ reasons. But when I return, when Crowley is dead and Eden restored...” He leans forward once more, pulling at Dean’s thigh to make room for himself between, rising up on his knees until they are flush against one another and Dean can feel the hard line of him against his hip. “If… If you _want_ me, I would make up for all the pain I have caused you. Be the husband I should have been, please you and give you as many children as you want.”

Dean swallows, the noise loud in the sudden silence. There are a thousand thoughts whirring through his head, chief among them that Castiel is speaking of him as if he were not barren and that his words, his desire, is making Dean himself want. He wants to believe everything Castiel has told him, he wants to forget his anger and just kiss him. Which doesn’t make any sense. He knows no matter how much he might enjoy this part – kissing and touching – when Castiel has him it will be nothing but agony. But his body it seems, is stupid, is shaking with thoughtless desire, eager to give.

Although Castiel _has_ just said he had no intention of laying with Dean. Because of children. Because _he does not_ _know._

That sobers him enough that Dean is able to find his voice. “Castiel,” he says. “Has the doctor not spoken to you?”

Castiel straightens. Instantly his tone is changed, urgent in a very different way - _panicked_. “No? Are you ill?”

Dean bites at his lip. He should stay quiet, but if he is reading all this correctly, then that means Castiel _doesn’t know_ and he the _King._ He _needs_ to know. There are enough people plotting and keeping secrets. Even more than Dean realized apparently. He does not want to be counted among them. “I do not think I can give you children,” he admits. “Though I want to.”

Castiel frowns in confusion. “What?”

“I think… there is something wrong with me. Inside.”

Castiel’s frown deepens. “We have been wed only months,” he says. “And not shared a bed for much of that time. What makes you think there is anything wrong with you?” His hand curls around Dean’s jaw and tugs so he is facing him. His head is tilted to one side in that stupid way of his, but Castiel looks more fearful than confused.

Now would be the time. If ever there was a moment, this is it. Dean could tell Castiel about how it hurts when they lay together, the unnatural tearing agony, the proof that he is broken in some fundamental way, but he cannot get the words out, does not even know where to start.

“Dean, who has told you this?” Castiel asks. “I… Whatever you are thinking, it’s not that. You are perfectly healthy.”

Dean snorts in derision.

“It’s true,” Castiel insists, stumbling over his words, gone all awkward and strange, not meeting Dean’s eyes. “The doctor… When you had your fever she examined you thoroughly. She had to check that you were not already with child. She said you were… That you are perfectly healthy, and that if you had not conceived it was probably because,” He swallows is silent for a moment, his expression one Dean cannot quite place, pained almost, but angry too. “Because you were so thin and… and you had not settled in yet and I… I did not…” The sentence hangs for a moment, unfinished, and then Castiel sighs as if in defeat before continuing in a weary tone. “There is nothing wrong with you Dean.”

Dean tries to understand. “But… I thought? She keeps giving me horrible tea and prodding me?”

“Because I told her to consider your health her chief concern. You are still too thin. You are recovering. I worry.” He runs his fingers down the side of Dean’s face in a hesitant gesture. “I was worried you would sicken again, especially after Benedickt spoke of how… how unhappy you had been.”

Dean stares at him for a long moment, absorbing all that has been said. In the space of a few very confusing minutes everything he thought he knew has been turned entirely on its head. Again. “I’m not barren?” he asks.

Castiel shakes his head. “You are, to quote the doctor: ‘A very fine young man’ who will no doubt one day have many equally fine children.” There is something brittle in his tone, like there are things he is not saying.

“I…” Dean doesn’t know what to think, where this leaves him. He tries to straighten it out in his head. “You haven’t been sleeping with me because I am _not_ barren and leaving me with child would mean a war of succession should you die?”

Castiel nods almost warily.

So… So Castiel isn’t trying seduce him. Doesn’t have any intention of bedding him. And yet he’s kneeling at Dean’s feet, having just told him how he thinks him lovely, how much he _wants_ to lay with him, give him children, be all a husband can be to him. So what then? What is this all this talk leading to? Kissing? Another frantic mess like when Castiel pinned him to the table? The thought of that, of Castiel’s hands on him, of the heat of his mouth, has Dean wriggling in his seat. Is that what Castiel wants? Or something else?

He thinks of the stableboy and the crude things he had said to Castiel then and tries to make sense of it all, what it is that his husband wants of him. “Do you… do you want me like that boy then?” he asks hesitantly. “My mouth?”

Castiel’s eyes widen and flick down to Dean’s lips for a moment and a blush blooms across his cheeks. “Dean,” he says. “No. Not like that. I don’t… Dean I want _all_ of you. Any part of you.”

Dean nods even though he still doesn’t really understand, but he likes Castiel’s kisses and his touches and even if the thought of kneeling at his feet and putting his mouth on him is strange, he cannot imagine that it will be painful.

“But Dean you don’t have to,” Castiel says. “I don’t want you to… _bear_ my attentions.”

Dean frowns. “What?”

“I…” Castiel clears his throat awkwardly.  “I did want to burden you with my own selfish desires,” he says. “You are my consort, and it is our duty to have children, but… You do not have to...” He fumbles with his words for a moment. “It is not your  _duty_ to please me in that way.”

Everything clicks into place. Dean nearly laughs with relief at finally understanding the entire confusing mess. “You didn’t want me to feel obligated so you went and found some boy that looked like me.”

Castiel lifts one shoulder in a small gesture of agreement. “You did not choose me,” he says quietly, embarrassed. “It is happy accident that I find you so… so... I did not want you to pretend, to make this marriage worse for you than it already is by forcing more of my attentions upon you.” He looks down to one side. “I am not so selfish or cruel as that.”

“No,” Dean agrees, and it is like a break in the clouds, the sun coming out on a winter’s day. “You aren’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please no one stab me. cas and dean have turned the corner, they are are all miscommunicated and angsted out now. more or less.
> 
> pps. This has been revised so much I feel like there are a lot of typos I missed even though two people beta'ed it for me, sorry!


	13. Chapter 13

Dean tries out the shape of it in his mind, Castiel’s want of him, his desire to share more with him than just children and his name. He is still angry, the prickle of it hiding just below his skin, indignation at Castiel treating him like a child and something more tender at his betrayal, but that is not all. There is some other nameless thing, some frisson of interest.

He mulls it over, lets his mind roll it around and test it out as he watches Castiel prepare for bed. He is still thinking when he scrubs at his teeth and rinses his face, still thinking as he stretches out under the cool sheets and heavy furs at Castiel’s side, still thinking long after when they should both be asleep but are instead lying silently next to each other in the dark.

“You think of me?” Dean asks softly, breaking the silence of feigned sleep. “When you are with your stableboys?”

Castiel sighs, clearly not eager to discuss it but after a moment breaks the silence, voice low and awkward. “It was… There were not stableboy _s,”_ he says, stressing the plural. “I did not… plan that. Nor were there others, but yes. I was…” he hesitates and seems to steel himself, then speaks again in a rush. “He reminded me of you.”

Dean dissects that for a moment, lingering especially on the ‘ _Nor were there others’_ part. “There was no one else?”

“No,” Castiel tells him quickly and empathically.

Dean does not think he is lying and something relaxes a tiny _tiny_ bit inside. “So what were you thinking about?” he asks.

Castiel inhales sharply in surprise and his head turns on the pillow so he is facing Dean. “I…” Dean is certain if there was light enough to see by, his cheeks would be pink in embarrassment. “I think of _you_ ,” he says, vague and mortified.

Dean rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his arm and giving Castiel his full attention. “ _How_ do you think of me?” he asks, both out of curiosity, and because he is enjoying seeing Castiel so uncomfortable, small justice though it is.

“I…I think of your face?” Castiel tells him, not meeting his eyes, instead looking down at his fingers where he is twisting them in the sheets. “Your eyes.” As he speaks his own eyes dart back up, as if now that he has mentioned Dean’s he is unable to resist looking at them. The way he stares makes Dean feel warm. “The way you bite your lip.”

Without really thinking Dean does just that, catching his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment then releasing it. Castiel stares. “What else?”

Castiel swallows. “Your… hair.”

Dean smiles. “My _hair?_ ” he asks skeptically.

Castiel ignores his teasing tone and shifts a little closer, lifting an arm so he can brush his fingers across the crown of Dean’s head, bury them there where it’s just long enough to catch. “It is very soft,” he says. “And when I…” He tightens his hold slightly and tilts Dean’s head back a little.

Dean lets his head roll back and thinks of all the times Castiel has done the exact same thing when buried inside him - pulled at his hair and made him arch his back - and for an instant he imagines their roles reversed, Castiel beneath him, the long lean line of his back twisting as Dean fucks him and pulls on his inky-dark hair. His dick gives a little throb at the thought and his mouth is suddenly dry. “Yeah,” he says, voice gone low. “You like doing that when you fuck me.”

Just as it had down in the stables, Dean’s crude words in his West Saxon drawl seem to thrill Castiel as much as shock him. His breath catches and his eyes snap to Dean’s. He can’t quite see in the dark, but Dean thinks his eyes would be blown, blue eclipsed by black, if he could only see them. He wonders how he’d react to something similar delivered in his native Enochian, thinks maybe he should ask Victor how to curse in the Northern tongue.

“Dean,” Castiel says, both pleading and a warning.

Dean’s enjoying himself though, this power over him, so he doesn’t heed it. It’s been so long since he felt like himself - an _aetheling_ \- and not a pet or child. He shuffles closer, puts a hand on Castiel’s hip. The king is statue still. “Is that what you were thinking about down in the stables?” Shoving aside subtly entirely, he smoothes his hand over Castiel’s hip and down, down until he has a handful of his ass. It’s warm and soft under his nightshirt. Castiel still has a hand in Dean’s hair. It is shaking a little. Dean catches his eye and licks his lips deliberately as he tugs him a little closer. Castiel splutters and flinches as their bodies slide into full contact, but he doesn’t pull away. Dean shifts his hips a little. “Were you thinking about fucking me Cas?”

Castiel makes some sort of noise, a curse or a hiss and then he’s grabbing at Dean, hauling him closer and pressing a kiss to his open mouth.

Dean doesn’t lay there and _let_ Castiel kiss him, he pulls at him and kisses back as hard and rough as he pleases. It’s frantic and messy and completely without restraint or finesse. It’s just what he wants. Not the sort of kiss a king gives his consort but the sort lovers might share. Castiel’s tongue curls against Dean’s and his teeth nip and scrape and everything he does seems to heat Dean from within, make his skin tingle and his heart race. His mouth is warm and wet and there is the faint sweetness of mint lingering on his tongue. Dean moans and grabs at Castiel’s hair, angling his head so he can chase the flavor deeper.

He’s panting like he’s been fighting and his heart is thundering against his ribs. There’s a deep throb between his thighs as his cock swells, grows hard and aching in what seems like an instant.  Castiel moans into his mouth when he feels it against his hip. In bed, under the covers, there is nothing to stop them pressing closer, slotting their legs together and getting their hips flush, only thin linen between them.

When he feels Castiel, just as hard as he, slide and butt up against him, he cannot stop the needy roll of his hips. Castiel pulls back a little though, drags him mouth reluctantly from Dean’s. “You want this?” he asks, his accent thicker than usual.

“Yes. Fuck yes,” Dean manages and then he’s on his back and Castiel is pulling at his clothes like they are have personally affronted him. His night shirt is tossed aside and Castiel’s quickly follows. The bedding has slipped aside in the fumbling and Castiel is left above Dean bare and pale in the feeble light. It is freezing but Dean doesn’t care, he stares up at Castiel greedily. He has so rarely had the chance to really look at him and he tries to make up for it now, skimming over his shoulders, chest and hips - but his eyes are quickly drawn down to the stiff arch of his blood-flushed cock and they get stuck there. Something hot and wanton arrows through him at the sight of it and for a deranged instant he thinks he’d like to feel it inside him, despite the pain, but then Castiel is falling down upon him, settling between his thighs and kissing him roughly as their bodies slot back together. He whimpers as his dick slides up against warm, soft, bare skin. Castiel wiggles a little, shifts, and then Dean can feel him, hard and hot and wet at the tip, sliding up alongside him.

He lifts his ass off the mattress, chasing the feeling, and wraps his thighs around Castiel’s hips, trying to get closer, wedge them together. Castiel groans and buries his face against Dean’s neck, stubble scraping against his skin in way that makes him shiver. They rut and roll against each other for a minute, chasing friction just out of their reach, and then Castiel has a hand between them, squeezing and sliding, giving them something to fuck into. For the first half a minute it’s too dry, the drag of Castiel’s callused palm almost too much, but then he shifts his grip, fingering at the wet heads of their dicks and then it’s sticky and slick and perfect.

It’s still very new to him, the shocking feel of anything save his own touch, and Dean’s giddy with it, peaking fast and eager. There’s that tingling heaviness in his balls and he knows he’s not going to last but he can’t help but buck even more wildly, chasing after that edge. He moans and clenches his eyes shut, pulling out of a kiss he’s too distracted to continue and biting at his lips instead, smothering the noises trying to bubble out of him.

“No,” Castiel says and Dean’s eyes pop open. He’s got a hand braced beside Dean’s head and the play of muscle up towards his shoulder and down his chest is distracting. There is a scattering of fine dark hairs there, starting below his collarbones and leading down his chest. The trail fades across his tight stomach before starting up again at his belly button and leading down to where Dean can just make out the mesmerizing sight of the dark, slick heads of their cocks where they are gripped in Cas’s fist, caught between their heaving stomachs. He cranes his head forward, staring, wishing it were daylight and he could see clearer because he does not think he has ever seen anything as captivating as he and Castiel together in such a manner.

Castiel shifts up onto his knees, releasing them for a moment, and then his thumb forces itself into Dean’s mouth and his lip pops out with a soft wet noise. Dean looks up at him as he pushes, forcing Dean’s head back to the pillows. “No,” he says again and Dean frowns in confusion, his abandoned dick throbbing for attention. Cas’s thumb slips past his lips to press down on his bottom teeth and Dean lets his mouth open a little. He wonders if Castiel wants him to suck his fingers again. If it means he’ll start touching his dick again, he’s happy to go along with it. But the hand retreats.

“Don’t bite your tongue,” he says. “I want to hear you.”

“I… _Cas,_ ” Dean says, embarrassed.

Castiel reaches down and fists him again, sliding his hand up and down over Dean’s aching cock and he whimpers at the sensation, the swooping reminder of how close he is.

“Please,” Cas says, eyes boring into him. “Please. Don’t be quiet. I need to hear you, Dean.”

Dean can’t though, it’s one thing to tease or tempt, to _pretend_ like he did in the stables, but another to be lying beneath Castiel, coming apart at his touch. For a long moment Castiel just looks down at him as he slowly jacks Dean’s cock, waiting, but then his eyes narrow and something thoughtful flickers across his face and he turns his attention down to where he’s palming Dean. The scrutiny is embarrassing but Dean doesn’t have long enough to get uncomfortable because Castiel lowers himself back down to the mattress and suddenly his _mouth_ is on Dean.

Dean’s brain splutters to a complete halt. All he thinks is _hot_ and _warm_ and _wet,_ and a noise he doesn’t recognize bursts from his throat, high and desperate and _loud_ as his whole body twists and tenses at the sudden shocking sensation. He stares down in disbelief at Castiel where he is perched across his hips and struggles to stay still and just _breathe_. His eyes are on Dean, watching carefully, almost nervously. He has one hand still firmly wrapped around Dean’s dick but his lips are closed over the head.

Dean manages to gulp in a mouthful of air, manages to keep his hips pressed down against the mattress even though something is urging him to lift them, to jerk up, get deeper into that tight warmth. _“Cas?!”_ Instead of replying Castiel _hums_ , the vibration of it shooting down Dean’s dick and up his spine, making his toes curl. He’s still gasping from that when he feels Castiel’s _tongue -_ wet and hot - flick, flick across the crown of his dick, quick and deliberate as he stares up at Dean intently. And then Dean’s eyes are squeezed shut and he can’t breathe. Castiel’s tongue strokes across the head of his dick, tip tracing along the shivery slit there. With his eyes shut it seems to feel even more intense and Dean twists his hands in the sheets and lets out a noise that can only be described as a whine. He’s hypersensitive, mindful of every touch down there. The tight band of Castiel’s lips and the blunt shape of his teeth behind, the velvet softness of his cheeks, the hard roof of his mouth and of course, _his tongue._

Dean loses all track of time as Castiel licks and sucks and kisses him. His nerves skate across a knife’s edge of shuddering excitement, and the only reason he does not come within the first 30 seconds is a sort of nervous anxiety. It feels so good. Better than anything. Castiel gets him all wet and slick and even just the slide of his hand has Dean gasping and moaning. He’s so hard it hurts, but in the most delicious way. He can feel himself leaking, pulses of come that Castiel laps at, and behind that his orgasm looms, a wave that seems to keep cresting without breaking. He can’t relax. It’s too much, too good. He reaches down and grabs at Castiel’s hair, tugs at the strands. “Cas… Cas.”

He lifts his head leaving Dean’s dick wet and aching and Dean instantly wants to grab him and shove him back down, get his mouth back on him, but he restrains himself. Castiel is panting, breath heavy and uneven, and even in the dark Dean can see how flushed he is, how his lips and chin are wet with spit and maybe more.

Another tug and Castiel gets the message, crawls up the bed so he’s level with Dean. “Dean,” he says and even his _voice_ sounds messed up and Dean _has_ to kiss him so he just grabs at him and yanks him down. It’s wet and messy and there’s a faint tang to the taste of Castiel that Dean knows is _him._ The feel of his mouth had been one thing, but now that he is able to think a little clearer, the _idea_ of it has Dean moaning all over again. Castiel has put his mouth on Dean. His _king_ has sucked his dick. Because he wanted to, because he wanted to please Dean. His mind is reeling, reassembling things and shifting assumptions around.

Castiel is kissing him eagerly, pressed down atop of Dean warm and tempting, but he’s talking too, mumbling into Dean’s mouth and against his lips. “You do want this?” he pleads. “You aren’t just letting me?”

Dean wants to roll his eyes. The fact that he’s hard as an iron bar and trying to fuck Casitel’s hip should be proof enough of that. Tasting himself on Castiel’s kisses, it’s somehow much easier to reply than before. “Yeah,” he says. _“_ Want it.”

Cas groans and then he’s shifting, slotting himself against Dean and reaching down to get them both in hand. Dean arches up into the feel of it, Castiel’s fingers and his dick and his body pressing down on him in a way that’s good. So so good. “Want it,” he says again as they fall into a rocking rhythm. It feels like he’s been teetering on the edge for hours, driven half-mad by Castiel’s mouth and his tongue and tight slide of Castiel’s hand. The feel of his dick thick and hard sliding up against him offers the sweetest relief. “Want you, Cas.” And the words seem to warm him as much as Castiel because more follow. “Fuck. Fuck _Cas_ -” And Castiel is panting, his skin hot and damp with sweat where they are touching, where they are clutching and rubbing against each other. “Gonna come,” Dean babbles and then there’s more cursing and Cas’s name and when it overcomes him - heat and ecstasy hitting him between the eyes and twisting him up inside - he wails and digs his nails into Castiel ass, yanking him down as his hips jerk up against him.

Castiel kisses him messily as Dean shakes apart, his hand and their dicks getting wet and filthy with his come and then he groans deep and low and Dean feels the pulse of him just before the mess between them grows even messier. “Dean,” he gasps, breathes, into Dean’s mouth. Dean moans and grabs at him, twists his fingers in Castiel’s hair and wraps his legs around his hips. Castiel’s head slips down to Dean’s shoulder and humps against him desperately, like he’s fucking Dean instead of his hand, and Dean suddenly fiercely wishes that he was. He says something in Enochian that Dean doesn’t quite catch and then “ _Fuck. Dean--”_ he locks up and shudders and he empties himself between their heaving stomachs.

Neither of them move for a time. They lay in a sweaty tangle as their breathing calms. Dean blinks over Cas’s shoulder and stares blindly at the dark shadows of the ceiling above as his heart slows. Sweat is cooling on his skin, giving him a chill, his stomach and dick are slowly gluing themselves to Castiel, but he smiles.

He turns his head a little so he can speak into Castiel’s ear. “You said _fuck,"_ he murmurs, amused. “Didn’t know you even knew how to curse.”

Castiel lifts himself on an elbow and frowns at him. His lips are swollen and his hair is sticking on end. Dean smiles even wider.

***

“I’m not staying in this room,” Dean tells Castiel sometime later when they have cleaned themselves up and relocated to the dry side of the bed, Castiel on his back and Dean on his stomach with something of an overlap between them.

Castiel sighs. “There are people trying _to kill you_.”

Dean shrugs. “That’s hardly new. I’m pretty handy with a sword you know.”

“I am aware,” Castiel agrees readily enough, “But what about poison or an arrow?”

“If they’re that determined a locked door isn’t going to stop them,” Dean points out.

“Perhaps not, but it makes it much harder for them.”

Dean huffs and turns his head away from Castiel and into his pillow. Castiel takes this as invitation to haltingly stroke the back of his head and the fine hairs on the nape of his neck. “I am… I am sorry that I must ask this,” he says. “I do not like keeping you here, but it is not forever. When I return I do not expect you to sit in a room in the palace all day. I do not _want_ you to.”

Dean pushes himself up on an elbow and frowns. “When you return?” he asks lowly. “I thought I was coming with you.” At Castiel’s guarded expression he continues. “You _said_ if I could prove myself a decent sword to your captains and I wasn’t with child, then I could ride with you.”

“I know,” Castiel agrees. “But… that was before.”

“Before what?”

“Before members of my own court - perhaps my own kin - tried to kill you,” Castiel snaps. “Repeatedly.”

“Which I’m pretty sure demonstrated that I’m a ‘decent sword’,” Dean replies.

“It is not the battlefield I fear - you have faced Crowley’s men in battle more than many of my captains,” he says. “It is the camp. Away on campaign you would make an easy target. Your death could be blamed on raiders or out-riders or even spies or some plot from within.”

Dean purses his lips. Castiel has a point but it’s not one he thinks warrants being left behind. Spies could plot against him just as easily at court. When it comes to Dean’s safety Castiel clearly over compensates. “I’m not an idiot,” he tells him. “I’ve probably spent more time on campaign than you. I’m not going to put myself at risk, wander off alone and get picked off by a stray arrow or a knife in the back.”

Castiel doesn’t seem reassured. “There are no locked doors in a camp. I would not be able to protect you from a threat from within, and your death could be used to destroy the treaty with your father.”

Dean stops short at that. “Oh,” he says. Because yes – his father _had_ sold him off to Castiel without so much as a by-your-leave-Dean, but no one does bitter revenge quite like John of Wessex. There is a chance he _would_ end the alliance if Dean died under Castiel’s protection, or if he suspected Castiel himself was involved.

“You see my predicament?” Castiel asks. “It is not that I think you… _weak_ , it is that there is more at stake than just your life. You are a Prince before you are a soldier. You are an Aetheling of Wessex and the Prince Consort of Eden before you are anything else.”

Dean settles back into the mattress and mulls over that depressingly valid point. “So I have to stay here in this godsforsaken room until you win a war?” He cannot help the annoyance in his voice.

Castiel hums in thought. “I had thought you might prefer to return to the Capital? Anael would welcome your company and you would be of aid to her while she rules in my stead.”

“It’s not what I’d _prefer_ but I suppose it’s better than nothing,” Dean grumbles.

They are silent for a few minutes, each lost in their own thoughts. “Do you still ride with the first thaws?” Dean asks. That is not far now.

“Yes. Your father and I have arranged our rendezvous. If all goes to plan, Crowley will be drawn out and crushed between us and the war over before it is truly begun.”

“I want to ride over the pass with you,” Dean says.

Castiel sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes. _“Dean._ ”

“What? Everyone thinks I’m coming with you right? Unless I’ve caught?”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees guardedly.

“So any would-be assassins will be waiting until we are across the border to jump me,” Dean tells him. “If I ride down the pass with you then turn around at the border they won’t have time to plan any attack on me back here, on the road back to Zion or at the palace.”

He can tell from Castiel’s frown that he doesn’t like it, but Dean’s statement is perfectly sound. “They will have made their plans thinking you will be with me in Perdition,” he agrees and then sighs again, a weary noise of defeat. “I suppose the subterfuge could be useful.”

“Mhmm,” Dean hums. “So if I’m meant to be coming with you, I should be sparring and working Impala.”

“What?”

“Well it’s not like you’d let me ride off to war after spending the winter locked in my room eating honeycake is it?” Dean asks.

Castiel purses his lips, but Dean can tell he’s found the chink in his armor. Reason is Castiel’s weakness. No matter how confounding his behavior, the more Dean learns of him the more he realizes that there is always logic behind it, even if it is flawed or twisted. He seems to do nothing on a whim. He might wish to keep Dean ‘safe’ in the tower, but if there is no reason to justify that desire, his resolve will crumble, Dean is certain.

***

Someone pulls at his blankets and taps his shoulder. Dean ignores the touch and rolls away, burrowing deeper into the bedding. They try to pull at his covers again and Dean has to fist them tightly to keep them cocooned around them. He mutters his annoyance in a vague, threatening way and tries to slip back into sleep, but there’s a voice now too. Too loud and irritatingly amused.

“Dean, shouldn’t you be dressed?”

Dean opens his eyes to find Castiel standing over him, fully dressed and looking far too bright-eyed and alert considering it’s not even full light yet. Dean glares at him but pulls himself up, tugging the blankets high around his shoulders as he does. It’s barely past dawn and it’s freezing, despite the freshly banked fire. “What?” he croaks, rubbing at the sleep in his eyes.

Castiel’s lips twitch in one of his almost-smiles. “You should be up and sparring shouldn’t you?” he asks almost smugly. “Since you are riding south?”

Dean pouts at him for a moment, but forces himself to his feet, abandoning the warm blankets grudgingly. The water in the ewer at the wash stand has practically frosted over and it does a very thorough job of waking him the rest of the way up. By the time he’s scrubbed his teeth clean and rinsed his mouth out he’s wide awake. He can feel Castiel watching him from the table where he’s eating his breakfast, but ignores him to quickly strip off his night shirt. He notices a faint bruise over his collar bone and blushes as he realizes it is from Castiel’s mouth, which instantly has him thinking of other places he put it the night before.

When he pulls on his trousers they fit a little snugger than usual. Ignoring the twitch of his excitable dick, he focuses instead on how _cold_ it is as he dons one of his warmest undershirts - dark fine wool - and then a tunic. He yanks on some hose so his toes don’t freeze off but doesn’t bother with boots or belt yet, the smells coming from the breakfast table to tempting to ignore.

His stomach grumbles as he sits himself down across from Castiel. There’s the usual spread of fried ham, sausage, eggs, thick oats, fine white bread and bitter northern tea. Dean butters a piece of bread and bites at it one-handed as he pours himself tea, dumping in a generous amount of honey. He puts even more into a bowl of oats and starts shoveling the creamy porridge into his mouth even as he eyes the ham and sausage hungrily. A noise from Castiel has him looking up.

“What?” he asks, swiping at his mouth as a dollop of porridge tries to escape.

Castiel is trying not to smile. “Either you do not eat at all, or you eat everything all at once,” he says.

Dean blushes, both in embarrassment at his manners – he’d almost forgotten he was keeping company with a king – and at the reminder of his long denied appetite and the cause.

“M’ hungry,” Dean mutters, then gulps down some scalding tea.

“I can see that,” Castiel says lightly, still amused.

He leaves just after, while Dean is working his way through a plate of sausage. “Stay within the main keep,” he tells Dean. “I have told your guards not to allow you further.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

Castiel purses his lips. “ _Don’t_ try and lose them. I’m trusting you not to ride off into the mountains exploring just because you’re bored. I understand your frustration but humor me for now, my concerns are valid.”

Dean waves him off. “Uhuh. I’ll behave. I swear.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at him, but nods jerkily anyway before heading for the door.

Excited at the prospect of _finally_ getting out of the tower, Dean rushes his breakfast and follows him out within minutes. Benny and Victor grin at him, seeming almost as pleased as he. Even Ephraim and Ion seem to be a bit less dour than usual.

“So, you’re finally allowed out of your room?” Benny asks. “I was beginning to think I’d grow old and gray standing at your door, bored out of my skull.”

Dean grins. “That’s right,” he says, slapping his thegn on the shoulder. “I’ve been given my freedom again.”

“You mean freedom of the Castle,” Victor corrects. “Not allowed past the inner keep. No riding off down the pass or anything.”

Dean shoots him a sullen look. “That’s almost exactly what Castiel said. It’s like you think I’m going to run off.”

“I don’t fancy riding after you again in this weather,” Victor tells him. “Nearly froze my balls off last time.”

Dean snorts. “It’s not my fault you chased after me in the _wrong direction_ ,” he says. “I was only a few miles up the pass.”

Victor huffs and Benny snorts in amusement. “Yes well, no rides to the valley,” he says, crossing his arms and glaring a little.

“Yes mother,” Dean says, weaving past him and down the stairs. Behind him his thegn and his knights fall loudly into step. “Just sparring in the yard this morning, I promise.”

Victor seems to perk up at that. “Can’t say I’m not looking forward to putting you on your ass a few times Aetheling,” he says. “It’s been too long. Weeks.”

Dean rolls his eyes even though his guard can’t see. “You can try,” he says. “But I’m over that fever and we both know you’re no match for me when I’m in form.”

“You’re still too skinny,” Benny says. “Victor’ll have you on your backside more than not I’d say.”

They’re right of course. Dean’s regained most of his strength, but he’s still a long way off where he was before they left Wessex and he’s spent the last few weeks pacing a small chamber, no room for anything save the most basic of stretches and exercises.

It’s still fun though, getting his heart racing and his blood pumping as his thegn spar against him with blunted swords. The aches that build in Dean’s muscles are familiar ones and when they take their midday meal down in one of the lower halls, he has worked up an appetite. He eats heartily and laughs and jokes easily with his two friends. His mood is so improved that he’s able to ignore the way all the staring and whispering has increased since he was last out and about, and what the gossip around the Keep might be.

He’s dressed in plain clothing and sturdy boots, nothing princely about him at all, but he and his thegn are still clearly marked out as outsiders. Perhaps Dean by himself might blend in – his hair is kept shorn short in the Edenish fashion and his clothing unremarkable - but Benny and Victor with their long braids, golden pins and tooled southern armor are unashamedly outlandish amidst the drab Edenish men-at-arms.

Dean knows they would dress in the northern fashion if he asked it of them, but as much as he dislikes the attention they draw, their familiar appearance is something of a comfort. A reminder that he is not entirely alone. Even if his only friends are his bodyguards. Besides, his Edenish guards in their bright cloaks and gleaming armor are hardly inconspicuous and even if his thegn dressed in the northern style, he still wouldn’t be able to pass by unnoticed.

The afternoon passes with more sparring, though Dean soon tires and proves little competition for Benny or Victor. He has a bath brought up when he returns to his room and soaks away the ache of muscles grown lazy from disuse. Even then, he thinks he’ll probably be too sore to so much as lift a blade on the morrow.

His hair’s still damp when Castiel surprises him by coming to fetch him for the evening meal in the High Hall. For some reason Dean had assumed he’d still be taking dinner alone in his chambers. There is a lot more staring than usual from Castiel’s lords and knights after Dean’s long absence, but Lord Joshua is as gracious as ever, and the food is good, so Dean endeavors to ignore the curious looks from around him.

Sir Zachariah seems to spend most of the meal forcibly preventing himself from speaking to Dean, his twisting face communicating the barbs and insults withheld clearly enough, but a few of the others are not so reserved. Unlike Zachariah however, they are curious, but polite in their conversation. Lady Ariel, arrived to serve as one of Castiel’s captains while Dean was locked away, says she is pleased to see Dean looking so well after hearing of the ambush and his illness on the road, and appears to mean the sentiment honestly. They speak a little about her garrison - knights and archers mustered from her mother’s most far flung estates in the north and one of the last companies to arrive, and then upon Anael, whom Dean is informed is bored and moody at being left alone in the Capital.

Sir Balthazar, another familiar face arrived while Dean was stuck in his chamber, also seeks him out. Unlike Lady Ariel he does not speak to Dean of garrisons or troop movements however, instead he kisses his hand and spouts flowery compliments that are rather less scandalous than Dean had come to expect from him at Court. He also asks after Dean’s health, and hangs on every word of Dean’s explanations like he’s been legitimately worried for him. It is strange – Balthazar never seemed overly compassionate or caring that Dean could see – and they certainly have not cultivated a friendship. He is not sure what to make of it. Castiel seems likewise confused and perhaps suspicious, and draws Balthazar away from conversation with Dean on several occasions. He keeps sneaking _looks_ at Dean though, odd ones that make the skin on the back of Dean’s neck prickle. Dean is glad when the meal is done.

It is strange retiring to bed with Castiel, strange not to be at odds with him. Dean tries to pretend that it is like it was back in the city, but in truth it is very different. There is more than duty between them, there is something like friendship and very obviously attraction, but rather than make their marriage easier, that somehow makes it much more difficult.

Dean blushes and Castiel fumbles and their conversation when alone is stilted. They edge around one another awkwardly as they wash and dress for bed. Dean doesn’t know what is meant to happen, how he should act. The great bed in the center of the room draws his eye and makes him feel almost ill with nerves and anxiety.

Castiel… _wants_ Dean. Inexplicable as that still seems, it appears to be fact. But he has said he wants no heir, so they will not be laying with one another. And yet they are sharing a bed. And the night before they had… Dean’s cheeks flame hot at the thought. Was that something he wishes to do _every_ night? Or was it just that once? Does Castiel want to kiss and touch him? More? There are other things men do to each other and all the crude jokes and proud boasting Dean has been privy to over the years have been flashing across his thoughts all day.

Clearly Castiel has an… _interest_ in Dean’s mouth. And he had been willing to touch Dean in that way, so it is only fair that he makes some attempt to return the attention. But Dean doesn’t know _how_ to please a man that way. Or any other. And who could he ask? The only person he can think of is _Balthazar_ and he’d sooner stab himself in the eye then ask him for instruction.

It would be a mortifying conversation, but Benny and Victor would offer what help they could if Dean were to ask, but they both prefer women, and probably have little more insight than Dean himself. Balthazar though, even insulated from most gossip at court, Dean had heard of his supposed prowess with any willing partner. Or _partners._ He would no doubt be delighted to offer Dean advice, but at the expense of endless teasing and spreading gossip across the keep. And even if he had seemed oddly quiet over dinner, Dean would not put it past him to try for a practical demonstration.

Dean slides in between the cool sheets and settles himself, ignoring Castiel doing the same across from him. He lies still and tries to catalogue what Castiel had done to him with his mouth the night before. It is all a blur though. He remembers little beyond how good it had felt. There had been licking and sucking and… and surely there was more to it than that? Dean is willing to do it, but _what if he does it wrong?_ The prospect seems far more terrifying than it has any right to be.

His heart is doing something very distracting in his chest, skipping unevenly against his ribs. It is absurd to be so anxious over something so small. Castiel is his husband. Sharing a bed with him is not _new._ If he wants to kiss or do other things with Dean, then… then Dean will do that. Castiel is perfectly aware of what Dean has and has not done, he will not expect him to suddenly have the skills of a courtesan. He doesn’t know why he is so panicked. He had never felt such panic when Castiel came to his room and Dean knew it would end in pain, so why does this, a far more pleasant prospect, have him jittery and tense?

The room is silent save their breathing for several minutes, but Dean can tell Castiel is not asleep either.  Sometime later, he shifts a little and his hand brushes against Dean’s where it lays between them. The brush of warm skin, of fingers beside his, makes his skin tingle and Dean’s nerves somehow twist even higher.

“Dean?” Castiel asks quietly and Dean turns his head on the pillow so he can make out his face in the muted rushlight. He can’t see his expression clearly, but his eyes are open and he’s staring at Dean.

“Yeah Cas?” Dean replies, speaking softly, almost whispering, for some reason.

Castiel licks his lips and Dean’s eyes track the movement in the dark, his fingers twisting a little, hooking around Castiel’s so they are not-quite holding hands beneath the covers. He hears the wet noise of Castiel swallowing and he’s suddenly certain that his husband, king or not, ten years older or not, is just as nervous as he is. Before he really knows what he’s doing, he’s stretched out across the mattress and pressed his lips to his in a kiss that’s soft but slightly off the mark, catching the corner of his mouth and lightly stubbled cheek.

Dean doesn’t have time to second guess himself or regret his actions because Castiel turns into it and kisses him back. For a minute it’s tentative, like they are each waiting to be pushed away, but when it becomes apparent that’s not going to happen, things become heated very quickly and in short order Dean finds himself perched naked atop an equally nude Castiel, sheets and blanket’s thrown aside as they grind and rub against each other.

Castiel grabs his wrist and says, “Wait, we can’t…” when Dean reaches for the long ignored oil beside the bed, but when he pours a little out into his palm and uses the stuff to slick them up where they are rutting into each other, Cas gasps and twists beneath him and says “ _Oh_.” like Dean is a genius. When he spills over his fist a little while later, gasping and clutching at him and panting his name, Dean does not feel inadequate at all.

Things are nearly as awkward the next evening and the one after that, but as they become accustomed to the new closeness, the fact that neither of them seem to want to push the other away, the hesitancy between them diminishes. When Castiel starts reaching for Dean first, pulling him close and kissing him like he has every right to in the world, Dean is pleased. He wishes they had done this months ago, when they’d first married.

Things would perhaps be very different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did the finale kill you? it killed me. i mean i loved it, but wow. i was not prepared. ๏_๏


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to moira for beta'ing the second version of this chapter for me! I fiddled with it endlessly though, so any remaining typos are all mine. >.>

Dean wakes up early, before Castiel for a change. The room is chill and grey and the fire is nothing more than glowing coals, but Cas is warm and tucked up close behind him. He has an arm thrown over Dean’s side, but his hold is loose and Dean doesn’t mind it. It doesn’t make him feel trapped. He lays quietly for a few minutes, dozing, but when it becomes clear he won’t be getting any more sleep, he wriggles out of Cas’s arms and up to his feet.

Cas huffs grumpily and rolls into the warm space left in the bedding. Dean can’t help but smile. He’s completely cocooned, a lump under the covers, only tuffs of his dark hair and one furrowed brow visible. Dean reaches down and ruffles his hair, unable to resist. One blue eye opens and Cas scowls at him for a moment before burrowing deeper, pulling the blankets almost completely over his head.

Dean’s greeted by an amused smile in the looking-glass as he washes the sleep from his face. The water is freezing, but he doesn’t mind so much. He dresses warmly and banks the fire, not bothering to call for a servant. Castiel has left maps and piled letters, orders and reports spread over the writing desk and Dean amuses himself looking them over. Most of it all seems very well organized and thought out, the troop movements meticulously planned, weaponry and supplies carefully rationed and contingencies for made for quick resupply. Something on the munitions reports jumps out at him though, something he had not considered but with hindsight perhaps should have.

A servant comes and banks the fire again and returns soon after with hot water for the washstand. He bows politely to Dean though he does not speak on account of the softly snoring king, but he returns with breakfast earlier than usual since Dean is already awake and pours his tea for him.

The smell of tea and ham seems to rouse Castiel at last. He sits up and blinks blearily at Dean as he munches on a piece of buttered bread. His hair is more or less vertical and again Dean finds himself amused. He smirks. “Looking particularly majestic this morning Cas,” he says.

Castiel scowls but otherwise ignores Dean’s teasing. By the time he’s washed up, dressed and taken a seat beside Dean, he’s lost the sleepy frown and has tamed his hair. “Good morning Dean,” he says. “You are in a very good mood.” The last is delivered with a slight squint, like Castiel is suspicious of Dean’s cheer.

Dean shrugs. He is and there’s no special reason for it, nothing in particular he is looking forward to, just a day of sparring and a nice big lunch. Rather than replying he pulls out the munitions order he’s been looking over earlier. “This is missing something,” he says.

Castiel raises and eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Yeah. You’ve got salt and iron, but there’s no mention of holy water.”

“Holy water?” Castiel asks with a frown. “You mean water blessed by your priests?” At Dean’s nod he raises an eyebrow in disbelief. “That actually works?”

“Yeah it works. Burns cursed men like hot oil.”

“Truly? I had dismissed it as mere superstition,” Castiel replies, skewering a sausage and chewing on it thoughtfully. “How do you utilize it in battle?”

“Dip our arrows into it or pour it over our spears and blades mostly,” Dean tells him. “Or you know, just tip it straight onto them.”

“Interesting, but I do not see how we could supply our men with any,” Castiel says. “Shockingly, there are no Saxon temples along our supply routes.”

“Well, it works regardless which god does the blessing,” Dean tells him. “Thunor, Odin, Frig. I don’t see why _your_ God would be any different.” _Unless he doesn’t exist_ Dean pointedly does not add. “Are you taking any holy men with you?”

Castiel nods. “Many of my Knights are ordained.”

“Well, when you find a few black-eyed sons of bitches to practice on, get them to say a few of those long winded Edenish prayers of yours and try it out.”

“Does it require special water?” Castiel asks, sounding intrigued.

“No,” Dean tells him. “Brackish pond water will do.”

Castiel hums thoughtfully and sips at his tea.

Dean spends the day much as he expected – trading blows with Victor and Benny in the practice yard – but over dinner is surprised when Balthazar and Ariel ask him about holy water. Castiel interjects a few comments, but seems content to let Dean explain first hand. The knights and lords seated at the high table seem fairly evenly split on the subject, some dismissing it outright as pagan nonsense, but others seem to find the idea promising. Dean attempts to remain diplomatic, but eventually tells them bluntly that they will find out for themselves soon enough, since not a single Saxon rider will turn up to battle lacking a skin of the stuff, it being far cheaper than salt and just as effective.

The continued disbelief some of them express seems ridiculous to Dean. Why would he bother lying about such a thing when they will soon learn the truth for themselves? Such a fallacy would only serve to make him look like an idiot. Castiel at least seems to take him at his word. He does not outright say so, but he pointedly clears his throat at one point when one of his Lords is voicing his disbelief, silencing the man, and the look he shoots Dean is quietly apologetic.

***

Only weeks remain until the thaws, and rather than the slow drag of time locked in a bedchamber bored out of his skull, they seem to pass quickly. Dean is still frustrated – he only gets to ride out along the pass when Castiel and an entire troupe of guards can accompany him and the inner keep soon starts to feel confining, but for the most part he is… content.

Being married and surrounded by northerners is still strange, but the current arrangement is infinitely better compared to how things had been back in Zion. Dean knows it won’t last, that when Castiel comes back from war he’ll spend his nights gasping into his pillow for very different reasons, but it is hard to remember the agony of Castiel fucking him raw when he’s got his mouth wrapped hot and wet around Dean’s dick. It seems almost as if it happened to someone else. _And_ he tells himself, _There will be this too along with the pain._ Kisses and touches that are the opposite of those awkward, painful, fumblings from when they first married. _That will make it more bearable._

The increased intimacy in their bed spills over into the rest of their lives and forms an odd, backward, basis for a friendship. Castiel seems far more at ease with Dean and actually talks to him instead of just exchanging empty pleasantries. He speaks of the war preparations and issues of court that have followed them from the capital. He picks Dean’s brain for Saxon techniques and strategy as he devises all the different ways his forces and King John’s could work together in battle, and complains about things like his reclusive uncle Prince Gabriel, (who continues to ignore his summons and has still not sent so much as a single bowman to join Castiel’s army), Lord Uriel’s mood swings and Balthazar’s scandalous entanglement with Sir Samandiriel, Lady Hester and a scullery maid. (Which Castiel, understandably, is convinced will end very badly.) Dean can offer little input to matters of family drama and Edenish politics, but he makes sympathetic noises and Castiel seems to like having someone to vent to. Someone he can sigh and pout in decidedly un-regal manner in front of but who is also competent enough in affairs of state to understand his annoyances.

Dean for his part continues to spar and train with Benny and Victor, spending the dwindling days of the winter bringing himself back to something approaching his former condition. Castiel seems to find the return of muscle and weight to his diminished frame very interesting and when they are in bed spends a great deal of time stroking and touching Dean’s broad shoulders and back and the firm swell of his ass. Dean does not mind. At all. Castiel is all lean firm muscle and they are more or less of equal height and build, but Dean thinks perhaps he will end up taller and broader than Castiel given a few more years, and the thought is oddly thrilling.

It is a very different Castiel who now shares Dean’s bed. He still kisses Dean like he did that first time in their tent and when he takes Dean in hand that is also unchanged, but otherwise it is almost like he is married to a different man altogether. He seems to grow bolder each night, both with how he touches Dean and the things he says. It’s very distracting. Dean will be drilling with spear or sword and find himself thinking of something Castiel had done or said to him the night before rather than paying attention to his partner, and Victor or Benny will suddenly have him on his back.

Every time it happens he blushes crimson and his thegn somehow seem to know exactly what has happened. Given that they spend a great deal of time standing guard at the bed chamber door while Dean is being driven mad by Castiel’s hands and mouth, he supposes it’s not surprising. And he is not embarrassed, the fact that he seems to please Castiel so much is a _good_ thing, and he knows his thegn are relieved that Castiel now seems to likewise please _him_ as opposed to how things were… _before_ … but when Benny flutters his eyelashes or Victor asks in a breathy girlish voice if he’s _‘daydreaming of his regal paramour’_ , he still wants to beat them both over the head.

***

Dean is on one of his rare rides – dressed in full armor with shield, spear and sword at Castiel’s insistence - when he catches sight of his first cursed man in almost a year. They have ridden a ways up the pass - checking on the repairs being carried out to the road to ensure it will carry thousands of men and horses swiftly come the thaws - Castiel, Lord Uriel, Dean and a small company of Edenish knights. Dean has been enjoying getting to ride Impala and the softening chill of the air as winter fades when the scout up ahead blows his horn.

Dean peers ahead in interest, wondering what has drawn his attention, but Castiel’s knights and his own guards quickly close ranks, leaving Dean, Castiel and Uriel surrounded on all sides in a protective circle. Uriel and Castiel draw their swords and look ahead, but otherwise let their men cover them. Dean hears the tell-tale hiss of arrows and raises his shield automatically, glancing towards Castiel in concern. The king is wearing his armor and helm though, so he simply snaps down his visor. A long bow at close range could pierce his plate, but the short dark shafts Dean sees bristling from the snow nearby are common eastern recurve, so he instead focuses on making sure _he_ doesn’t end up skewered and leaves Cas to look after his own hide. Dean’s helm has a nose guard but no visor, and his mail does not offer the same protection as plate.

There’s yelling and the clash of blades and the tight circle of horses twists as the knights defend them against an attack. Dean keeps his shield raised protectively but shifts in the saddle and hefts his spear as he tries to see what is going on. He hears Victor shout and then the deep thud of a spear hitting its mark and sees flashes of dark-garbed eastern raiders in between the encircled knights, but can make out little else. A horse screams awfully and the circle collapses as a knight is tossed of his rearing mount. The knights to either side of him quickly move to close ranks but a ragged figure with two curved blades darts forward, hissing and making straight for Castiel.

Cas turns his horse and shifts in his saddle, clearly ready to hack the crazed man in half with his sword, but he’s right _there_ and Dean is _already_ holding his spear, so lowers his shield and stands in his saddle to send 7ft feet of iron-tipped ash sailing through the air to neatly skewer the lone attacker.  He gurgles, coughs up some dark blood, and the falls awkwardly to one side, Dean’s spear sticking out grotesquely.

“I had that,” Castiel tells Dean as the knights close ranks around them again, his voice muffled by his helm.

Dean shrugs and lifts his shield again but he can’t help but smirk a little at Cas’s annoyance. “If you didn’t want me using my spear, you shouldn’t have been so insistent I bring it,” he drawls.

Uriel snorts in amusement.

He cannot see through Castiel’s visor, but he is fairly certain his husband is doing that squinty thing he does. Possibly pouting.

The skirmish is over before Castiel has the chance to wet his sword. Benny yanks Dean’s bloody spear from the dead raider and returns it to him with a grin. “Nice aim Aetheling,” he says. “I see all my tutelage is paying off.”

Dean rolls his eyes. Benny has always been better with an axe than Dean, but never a spear and they both know it.

The knights part and their Captain approaches Castiel. “A scouting party your Majesty,” he says.

Castiel flips his visor up. “How many?”

“Only eleven,” the Knight replies, pointing a bloody sword off to one side. “We captured one alive.” His voice lowers and he glances over his shoulder towards a few knights who are holding onto a thrashing figure in black. “A _demon_ sire.”

Dean leans forward in his saddle, trying to get a look. The one he’d taken down was just a run of the mill raider. Crazy, but not a black-eyed creep.

“Very good,” Castiel says. “Chain him in iron. We will take him back with us.” He turns his horse and reins in beside Dean. “You are unharmed?” he asks quietly. Given how Cas has over-reacted in the past, Dean is pleasantly surprised that he’s not getting a full on pat down or a hand pressed to his brow like a sickly child.

“Not a scratch,” Dean tells him. There are two black arrows sticking out of his shield however, stinking with the filth Crowley’s men liked to dip their barbs in to make sure a wound festers, and Castiel eyes them with pursed lips. Dean pretends not to notice and instead points his chin at the hissing demon being bound behind them. “This would be a good chance to try out Edenish holy water,” he says, only half to distract him. “See if it works, adjust your water rationing if it does.”

Castiel turns to eye the cursed man warily. “Yes,” he agrees. “An ideal opportunity.”

As they ride back, the demon dragged along behind them in chains, Castiel gets Dean to explain all he knows of Saxon holy water to him again. Uriel rides alongside listening in. When Dean describes the way it burns the cursed men, makes their skin blister and smoke, Uriel smiles darkly and looks at their prisoner. “I would like _very_ much to see that.”

There is a dungeon beneath the old keep – most of it cluttered with supplies – but a few cells have been kept functional and it is into one of these that the chained demon is delivered, cursing and spiting.

Castiel dismisses his men, though the Edenish Captain and Uriel remain. It is cramped so their guards are left outside, save Benny and Victor, who having just as much if not more experience with cursed men and holy water as Dean, Castiel allows to remain.

Balthazar and Zachariah arrive unexpectedly, having followed the commotion, and then the cell is well and truly crowded.

“So,” Dean says. “Who’s a priest then?”

Balthazar elbows Castiel. “Technically Uriel, Zach and I count, we all took holy vows, but our illustrious king here is the most pious by far.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You’re a _priest_ Cas?”

“Not exactly,” he relies. “But as King I must perform certain… spiritual duties on behalf of our people as well as rule.”

“Well okay then,” Dean says. “So um, just get some water and say some prayers over it I guess?”

“You ‘guess’?” Balthazar asks dryly.

Castiel flicks an annoyed glance at him.  “Dean has explained the process to me in detail already Balthazar,” he says, but then turns back to Dean. “Although perhaps you could demonstrate first?”

Dean shrugs. “Sure. I just need some water.”

The Edenish Captain takes that as his cue and vanishes to fetch some. He returns with a jug that smells faintly of old wine but Dean’s worked with worse. The brackish pond water thing wasn’t an exaggeration. He sets it on the floor and kneels in front of it.

“Sire,” Zachariah says, voice very sweet, “I am _sure_ he means well, but are you _certain_ we should be encouraging the Prince to practice his… barbari- _Saxon -_ witchcraft?”

Victor huffs in annoyance and even Benny, who’s Enochian is still terrible and can’t have caught all he said, mutters darkly. Dean looks up just in time to see Castiel cross his arms and glare at Zachariah. “A blessing on a jug of water hardly constitutes _witchcraft_ Sir Zachariah,” he tells him sharply. “But if you are uncomfortable you may leave.”

Zachariah purses his lips and falls silent.

“The witchcraft we should be worried about is the black-eyed fellow chained up in iron,” Balthazar says. “Not our Prince’s charmingly rustic little gods - Thuny and Wooden and the gang.”

Dean winces at the butchering of their names.

Uriel hums in agreement. “If it truly works as Prince Dean claims, a bit of heathen muttering is hardly worth worrying about.”

Dean grits his teeth and ignores them. He can tell Uriel and Balthazar aren’t intentionally insulting him like Zachariah was, they are just thoughtless, and he has heard far worse since he arrived in Eden.

Castiel sighs and turns to scowl at the two men. “If Dean, despite his ‘rustic charms’ has the good grace not to insult _our_ God, I do not see why you should be incapable of showing him the same courtesy.”

The defense is unexpected and Dean looks up from the jug once more. Uriel is frowning in confusion, Balthazar is looking at Castiel thoughtfully and Zachariah is more or less seething in the corner.

“Okay I’m gonna get all heathen now,” Dean says, pulling off the golden hammer pendant he wears around his neck for luck. “So avert your eyes if that offends your delicate Christian sensibilities.” Lately he’s prayed mostly to Frige on account of his decidedly domestic problems, and his family are supposedly descended from Wōden, but it’s Thunor that has always held Dean’s favor. Ever since he was small. Sam had given him the pendant when he was 12 and he’d hardly taken it off since.

He clears his throat then starts praying, holding Thunor’s symbol tight in his hands. He doesn’t have an offering for him, so instead he offers the blood and suffering of his enemies, (in this case the cursed man chained up in front of him), something Thunor is generally very happy to accept.  Dropping the pendant into the jug, Dean asks for the God’s blessing. There’s no shining light or crack of lightning to show He’s listened, but Dean tastes something like a thunderstorm on the back of his tongue and knows his god has heard his prayer.

He thanks him then retrieves the pendant, hanging it back over his neck wet and dripping. Castiel and the others are staring, looking fascinated and perhaps a little scared. Dean is glad he didn’t cut his finger and offer Thunor a few drops of his blood as he might have done if he’d been alone.

The cursed man is hissing like a snake, eyes black and mouth bloody. Dean dips his fingers into the jug and flicks the blessed water at the thing.

It sizzles like it’s hitting a hot pan instead of the cold dead skin of a cursed man, and the demon shrieks in agony as his skin blisters and turns red.

Balthazar whistles. “Well I’ll be. The pagan god-water actually works!”

Castiel crouches beside Dean and wets his fingers in the jug, then flings the droplets at the demon. He stares, his head titled to one side, as the creature recoils anew. The smell of burned flesh begins to overtake the sulfur stink in the cramped cell.

Uriel and Balthazar each take a turn, and the demon is left with a face blistered and hideous.

Castiel watches the proceedings with quiet intensity. “And it is effective on blades and arrows?” he asks Dean.

Dean draws his seax and pours a thin stream of the water over it. The blade is already iron, so wetting it makes for a decidedly effective weapon against cursed men. The demon is cursing and swearing now, rattling in its chains. Dean ignores it. It’s easy to dismiss its human face when he’s seen the sort of carnage its kind leave behind them - burned villages full of mutilated bodies and trees hung with corpses, when he’s seen demons pull axes and spears from their cold bodies and keep fighting. Whatever they might have been, they aren’t men anymore. Wights some of the elders call them. The accursed dead awoken from their ancient barrows by Crowley’s sorcery.

It screams when Dean draws a line across its cheek, the red skin smoking and splitting like silk to reveal bloodless meat beneath. “It won’t kill them,” he says. “But it hurts them, slows them down.”

Castiel holds out his hand and Dean passes him the blade. He scours the other cheek, peering down intently as the blade and holy water does its work. “It seems just as effective as you claimed,” he says. “Now to find out if we can bless water in our own God’s name.”

Castiel’s first attempt doesn’t work. But the second, when he adds a silver cross belonging to Balthazar to the fresh jug of water, seems just as potent as that Dean blessed in Thunor’s name. Uriel and Balthazar are gleeful, and even Zachariah seems to take a renewed interest in proceedings once it’s _Christian_ water he can fling at the demon’s face.

Dean, having borne witness to many such sessions over the years, has no interest in hanging around as the demon is ‘questioned’ and leaves them too it. He expects Castiel to be occupied for some time.

He’s already pulling at his armor, eager to be rid of the stuff, to wipe the salt and smell of sulfur from his skin and then burrow under the warm furs of the bed and nap until dinner, when he leaves his guards loitering on the door.

He’s sticky with sweat and peels his leather and mail off with relish, sighing with relief when he’s free of the heavy tangle. He eyes the washstand for a moment before calling a servant for a bath instead. It takes some time for them to ready it for him, first the tub is carted in and then hot water is ferried up from downstairs in buckets. Dean sits in his trousers and cleans his seax while he waits. Bits of… _face_ cling to it stubbornly. He’s still hot after sweating in his armor, but he’s started to chill by the time they finish, so he doesn’t hesitate once the wooden tub is filled. He strips off completely and steps right in, hissing at the heat of it.

One of the servants has remained to assist him in usual bizarre Edenish fashion. A nervous looking boy holding a tray with soaps, brushes, perfumed bath oils and other things Dean doesn’t recognize. He is very carefully not looking at Dean. Dean waves him closer and grabs a creamy bar that smells like lemon and scrubs at himself thoroughly before carefully sitting down and letting the hot water soothe him. It’s difficult to relax with the servant standing stiffly beside him though, the silence between them thick and odd, so he has the boy scrub his back and then dismisses him, saying he will call when he is done and sending him scurrying gratefully away.

Once he’s blessedly alone, Dean wiggles around in the tub, getting into the most comfortable position, and then closes his eyes. The novelty of a hot bath whenever he wants one is something that still hasn’t worn off after years on campaign. When he was a child in Winchester hot baths were common enough at the castle, but at Singer’s Hold the servants tended to moan and sigh a lot when asked to cart water upstairs, and a full hot bath was a luxury. For the most part Dean had made use of the communal bathhouse like everyone else.

The water has cooled but is still pleasantly warm when Castiel lets himself in, still in his armor and with a thoughtful look on his face. “Dean-” he starts, like he has a question, but then freezes when he catches sight of Dean and just stares with his mouth slightly open. Dean looks up from where he’s been picking idly at the dirt under his fingernails. “Hey Cas.”

Behind him the heavy latch on the door falls into place with a thud as Benny or Ion pulls it shut.

Castiel drops his helm.

Dean frowns at the silver thing with it’s silly horse hair plume as it rolls across the rushes. “Cas?”

He doesn’t reply just strides across the room. Absurdly, Dean presses himself up against the side of the tub, nearly overbalancing it, in some ridiculous defensive gesture. Of course all Castiel does after he drops to his knees at Dean’s side is yank him forward and kiss him.

Dean is startled for a moment, caught by surprise - wet, naked and clutching a boar-bristle scrubbing brush of all things - but he recovers quickly, feels his heart pick up as his thoughts skip from cooling bath water and stubborn dirt to rather more interesting things. He likes Castiel like this, when he seems to lose every shred of that Edenish detachment of his and becomes something simple and raw. The scrubbing brush falls into the water with a plop and Dean hooks an arm around Castiel’s neck, giving as good as he gets, yanking him closer and opening for him, letting their tongues slide against each other. Castiel groans into Dean’s mouth and more or less attacks him, pulling him wet and dripping half out of the tub and into his lap.

Dean’s goes along with it eagerly enough, but he’s naked and Castiel is in full armor with a sword and dagger and all sorts of uncomfortable things covering his body, so it’s hardly ideal. Thankfully his gauntlets are gone at least so the fingers he has at Dean’s jaw are soft and warm, not chill metal.

Still when he rises to his feet, pulling Dean up with him, there’s a lot of pinching and after the warm bathwater, the air is _cold,_ pebbling Dean’s skin. He shivers and pulls haphazardly at buckles and laces without breaking the kiss, but achieves little. Castiel seems intent on more or less fucking Dean’s mouth with his tongue and groping his ass and offers zero assistance. Eventually, after something pinches his thigh a little too close for comfort, Dean shoves at him, getting enough room between them so he can actually – _there –_ undo Cas’s belt and get rid of his damned _pointy_ sword. It falls to ground, landing on the sodden bathing sheet spread around the tub with a muted thud. Castiel frowns down at it like he’s thinking of picking it up and putting it away _properly,_ but the firm push of Dean’s hand against his breastplate seems to jar him from that line of thought and he instead takes a step back so that Dean can step out of the now half-empty tub.

There is water everywhere, but Dean doesn’t care and Castiel certainly doesn’t seem too. His armor is a fucking pain in the ass to get off however. Cas is more of a hindrance than help, Dean being wet and naked proving very distracting for him, which results in more pinching and poking as Dean learns first-hand how uncomfortable being crushed naked against a horny man in plate armor is. Eventually though, the last odious bit of it is pried off Castiel and tossed aside. His trousers and padded undershirt are gone in an instant and Dean wastes no time in tripping Cas back onto the bed climbing on top of him.

Castiel groans and bucks his hips then promptly flips them so he has Dean pressed into the mattress. Dean does not mind. He’s cold after being dragged so rudely from his bath.

Castiel kisses his skin and laps the beads of water from along his collarbone and then up the side of his neck. The sensation, the warm rasp of his tongue and the prickle of his slight beard has Dean moaning low in the back of his throat.

He had expected something fast and rough, for Castiel to take them in hand and rock them to a messy end, but instead he finds himself being kissed and touched all over. “You are so lovely Dean,” Castiel tells him very gravely from the general vicinity of his left armpit. Dean smiles and relaxes into the soft furs and blankets beneath him, reaches out and tangles a hand in Cas’s messy hair. Castiel presses a kiss to his bicep and slides his hands over the swell of muscle there, significantly larger and stronger than a month earlier. He rises up on his knees, straddling Dean’s hips and looks down at him with blown eyes. Dean shivers at the hunger in that look. “How is it you are even lovelier now than when I first saw you draped in gold?” he asks and then with a soft sort of awe that makes Dean squirm: “Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

Dean rises up and kisses him so he will stop saying such embarrassing things. Castiel groans into his mouth and presses him back down into the bedding, falling in between Dean’s thighs. They kiss and touch and rub against each other until Dean’s mouth is sore and his dick is aching and eventually he ends up on his stomach with Castiel fucking the tight space between his clenched thighs while he rocks into his own hand.

It’s eerily like many other times Castiel’s pushed Dean down on his belly - the bruising grip on his hip, the sharp scent of the oil slicking the way between them, Castiel’s fist in his hair and his breath hot on his neck. But the kisses pressed along his shoulders and the moans muffled into his skin are new, and there’s no pain. Instead there’s a hot tease of feeling as Castiel rocks against him, a coiling spring low in his stomach, like he’s not quite getting what he needs, no matter how he jerks at himself where he’s grinding into the bedding. When Castiel slips free and nudges _up_ instead of _down -_ wet head of his cock sliding up between Dean’s ass cheeks and rubbing over the puckered knot of flesh there - Dean makes a noise he doesn’t recognize, not even from when Castiel’s used his mouth on him, and his hips jerk back in some ingrained instinctual movement, chasing more of that contact.

Castiel swears and then he’s up on his knees, braced over Dean’s ass, gripping his hips and sliding oil-slick and hot between his cheeks. There’s no real pressure, no blunt press of Castiel trying to get inside him, but Dean feels his hole quivering and twitching at the steady drag of skin regardless. He knows it would hurt - burn and ache - but the thought of it, of Castiel pushing into him, has his dick pulsing a wet blot of precome out into the sheets and shivery want washing over him.

 _“Cas-”_ he finds himself begging, hips rolling restlessly, and he doesn’t know if he’s asking for Castiel to stop teasing him or to just fuck him already and put him out of his misery.

“Fuck. _Fuck_ Dean.” Castiel’s voice is low and hoarse, almost pained, and he jerks against Dean, slipping back down and burying himself, hard and throbbing, tight between his thighs.

Dean whimpers, both relieved and disappointed, but then Castiel touches him. Rubs the bed of a spit-wet thumb over his hole in a circular motion and Dean feels himself flexing against it, muscles clenching strangely. It tags against the rim, a drag that has Dean moaning loudly and so Castiel repeats the motion, pressing in a little, rubbing and pulling wetly as he grinds his hips in little tight movements, making his dick slide against the sensitive skin behind Dean’s balls.

Dean’s vaguely aware that he’s panting and that the pillow beneath him is wet with spit, but mostly all he can focus on is that hot pressure and the intense sensations twisting through his body from where Castiel is touching him. When he presses the tip into him, Dean thinks he might burst into flames at the confusing _want_ thundering through his veins. His face feels like it might catch fire with how hot and flushed he is.

“In,” he moans, rolling his hips back desperately. “In, Cas, _put it_ _in_.” He barely even recognizes his own voice.

Castiel groans and Dean joins him as the thick digit presses and presses, heat clenching and flexing around it. It feel huge. Massive. An endless drag of skin and heat and stretching until Dean feels the web of his finger, knows it’s as far as it can go. It doesn’t hurt. Feels strange, but good. Nothing at all like the thick splitting agony of Castiel’s cock. Dean shifts his hips back, trying to get more.

Castiel swears and then he starts moving his buried thumb, not pushing it in and out, but making little circular motions with it, pressing against Dean’s walls from inside. Lower, between his thighs, he can feel the hard line of Cas’s dick shifting slightly as Cas jerks his hips in little cirlces. Dean’s hand on his own dick has long since stopped moving, because he knows all it would take would be a stroke or two and he’d be coming, and this feels too good, he wants it to last, wants to drag it out.

“Is it good Dean?” Cas is asking and Dean moans weakly in response.

“You’re so warm inside Dean,” Cas says low and breathless. “And so _soft_.” He slowly draws out his thumb, Dean’s ass clinging to the swell of it like it doesn’t want to let it go. More oil is drizzled on the sensitive skin of his crack and then Castiel is rubbing at him again, a finger this time, teasing at his hole with only the barest of pressure, making Dean plead and whimper at the light touch of it. After what feels like an age he presses in with more intent, letting his fingertip breach the ring of muscle. It’s easier than the thumb, smaller and the angle better, but that first inch is the same tortuous slow, tight, push.

Dean sobs into his pillow at the intensity of the sensation.

“I didn’t think I could possibly want you more than I already did,” Cas croaks. Dean can feel the hard shape of him pressed in close to him. “But I do.”

His finger finally breaches the thick clench of the Dean’s ass and sinks in smooth and hot until Dean can feel his knuckles pressing into his asscheeks where they are curled up against Cas’s palm. Castiel curls his finger and Dean feels it deep inside, thick and warm and strange. “Is it good?” Cas asks again.

Dean nods, words beyond him, and then Castiel brushes against something inside him, something low and bright and _hot_ and sparking pleasure shoots up his spine and tumbles out of his mouth in a confused wail as his dick throbs wetly. Castiel freezes. “Dean?” he asks. “Did I hurt you?”

Dean shakes his head and turns to peer over his shoulder. “No, no. Again! Do that again,” he pants, pushing back against Cas, trying to find that place inside that felt like lightning.

Castiel looks down at where his finger is sunk into Dean’s body and flexes it again, carefully pressing inside and Dean can feel it, the tease of it, just out of reach… “Lower,” he groans. “Just--" and then “ _Fuuuuck!_ ” because Cas has his finger pressing on something that feels amazing and “There there!” Dean says because he needs Cas to do _something_ and then there’s sliding rubbing pressure and it’s… it’s like Cas is somehow touching his dick - the deep tingly root of it - from inside him because it feels like hot sparks are shooting from Castiel’s finger through his body and up along his cock, making it throb and ache deliciously. He has no control over the noises that come out of him, of the way his hips rock back towards Castiel. “More,” he demands, insistent, “Cas _more.”_

Castiel slowly draws his finger out, dragging a humiliating whimper out from Dean along with it, and then there’s two fingers sliding into him, slick and slow. There’s heat and burn now, almost a sting but not quite, some low ache that has Dean arching his back and moaning. He’s hot, sweat damp on his skin, the chill from being dragged from his bath burned away completely. His hips shift and rock as Cas’s fingers inch their way inside him in little back and forths, deeper on each pass. When they’re finally buried as deeply as Cas can get them, he starts slowly twisting them around, stroking at Dean from the inside.

Even without the tingly, dick-jerking pleasure of before, it feels good. Dean, so good at smothering any sign of pain, can’t seem to control himself in the face of such pleasure. He’s panting, breathy little moans and whimpers bubbling out of him as he writhes around on Castiel’s hand. When Cas finds it – when his fingers are suddenly stroking right across that _place_ again, Dean feels like he might twist right out of his skin.

Castiel’s hunched over him, one hand curled around his hip, his dick pressing hard and wet against Dean’s thigh. His fingers stroke and rub and Dean fucking melts beneath him, twisting in the sheets, moaning and pleading non-stop, desperate for something. His dick is dripping beneath him, hard and aching, like he’s _just_ about to come but never quite tripping over the edge.

It’s torture.

It’s the best thing Dean’s ever felt in his life.

And then Cas starts rocking his hand instead of stroking, working his greasy fingers in and out of Dean’s body, aiming unerringly at that spot inside, and it’s somehow even better. Dean’s never felt anything this good before. He’s got a hand braced against the headboard and he’s pressing back, rolling his hips to try and get more, deeper – _something -_ rubbing his dick against the tangle of blankets beneath him. The bed’s damp from the bathwater, but he can feel the slick tacky mess he’s making. It’s almost like he’s come already.

Cas’s fingers slide in and out of Dean’s body with wet noises that are familiarly obscene. Vaguely, some distant part of Dean’s brain realizes that Cas is fucking him, just with his fingers instead of his dick. That’s where the similarity ends though, this is nothing like that agony. Dean feels stretched tight and split open, but it’s hot and throbbing, it aches in the most wonderful way. “More,” he says again, “more Cas more-”

Castiel’s grip on his hips tightens and the slow slide of his fingers speeds up, loses that gentle hesitancy he’s been clinging too. Each hot slide ends in a deep jolt of tingly ecstasy, and Dean thinks he might die with how… how _much_ it is, can barely seem to breathe let alone think. His body seems to move of its own accord, bowing beneath Castiel and thrashing bonelessly.

He’s begging, Cas’s name on his lips, one hand clawing at the headboard and the other twisted in the blankets. Castiel is talking, a low murmur of Enochian that Dean’s way beyond deciphering, and somehow he’s ended up spread over Cas’s knees, pulled up into his lap. With each firm jab against him inside, his dick throbs and spits, smearing over Cas’s warm thigh. The heat builds up unbearably, every inch of his skin flush and hot, and suddenly Dean knows that even without touching himself that he’s “Gonna come, fuck Cas gonna come-”

Castiel is rutting against his ass in frantic movements even as he keeps slamming his fingers into Dean and lighting him up from the inside and Dean can hear himself wailing like he’s dying and knows that he’s writhing beneath Castiel like a needy whore, but he doesn’t care. Is completely beyond embarrassment, beyond himself. All that exists is his need and Castiel’s goddamn fingers in his ass. He teeters on the precipice for an endless moment and then Cas gasps his name and the sound of it, as low and twisted and as desperate as Dean himself feels is what sends him tumbling off the edge.

Dean feels something like white fire burn out of him, a fierce climax that has every muscle in his body twitching as his cock spurts and his ass flexes greedily around Cas’s fingers. He’s still twitching when Cas pulls his fingers out and grabs at Dean’s hips, man handling him into position so he can rut against him. His dick slides wet and hot up along Dean’s asscrack as he franticly fucks against him. Still tingling from the best orgasm of his life, Dean rolls his hips back obligingly, wanting Cas to feel as amazing as he does. It lasts less than a minute. Cas’s dick catches on Dean’s hole and they both gasp and then Cas is coming pressed in tight against Dean’s ass. He collapses more or less immediately and Dean’s left a shaking mess lying in a puddle of come, sweat and oil with Castiel a warm heavy lump stretched out on top of him.

He wonders in a sort of daze if _this_ is how it’s meant to feel when Castiel fucks him, that spark and shocking heat, that needy ache from deep inside. He mentally compares the size of two of Cas’s fingers to his dick and wonders.

“Dean,” Cas rasps, sounding awestruck, but otherwise makes no attempt at gathering himself, just lays plastered over Dean’s back, panting softly where his face rests on his shoulder. His seed, warm and wet, trickles down Dean’s ass to join the mess already soaking into the bedding.

“Cas,” he replies, realizing that his voice is almost painfully hoarse.

The next morning Benny blushes bright pink when Dean and Cas leave their room and has trouble meeting Dean’s eyes for the rest of the day. That evening Sir Balthazar smirks a lot and makes a comment over dinner about hearing screech owls calling to one another in the night. Castiel glares at him and the older knight suddenly jerks and winces in his seat in a way that implies the king probably just booted him in the shin under the table. Dean is blushing in embarrassment, but he still has to bite at the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing at Balthazar's face.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: should be typo free now! TY Moira! 
> 
> Also thank you Rowan for your amazing ideas when I was complaining about this chapter. It's approximately 10000x better with your input. x

The last few weeks of winter pass in what feels like only a handful of days. The atmosphere in the keep changes as spring draws near, the men losing their air of boredom and becoming boisterous and loud as an almost festive sense of excitement falls over them. Castiel’s mood changes little however. He is perhaps a little more anxious, constantly poring over maps and letters and adjusting plans and strategies, but his confidence is absolute. Having seen the plans and figures, Dean does not think it misplaced. Castiel has been planning the assault for _years,_ even without the West Saxons riding to join him, his armies would have a good chance of besting Crowley _._ It will take some incredible trickery or luck for him to escape complete destruction. Perhaps he will be able to slither away – flee back across the sea – but Perdition will fall, of that Dean has no doubt.

He just wishes he could be there to see it crumble. All his life Wessex has been harried from the East, and even if he had not spent the last four years fighting raiders and cursed men along the border, seeing the destruction they left in their wake first hand, he would want to be there to see their old enemy finally beaten.

He contemplates speaking to Castiel again on the matter, trying to convince him, but he can think of no rebuttal to the political upheaval his death could cause between Wessex and Eden. He knows he would be of use to Castiel, could aid him in battle or at the very least cut down his share of cursed men, but his skill with blade and spear is not the issue, it’s irrelevant to Castiel’s reservations. So Dean accepts his judgment, more or less. That is not to say he isn’t slightly bitter about it though. If Castiel tries to leave him at home with his sister the next time he rides off to war, he will find Dean rather less gracious and accepting.

Of course he is the only one that _knows_ about all this, as far as the men, (save Benny and Victor), are concerned Dean _is_ riding south with the army. It is a pretense both Dean and Castiel maintain carefully. Castiel even attempts to have armor fashioned for him, going so far as to send the smith to take his measurements, but Dean balks at the thought of encasing himself in plate and insists on keeping his saxon mail and leather.

Castiel seems to find his preference both irrational and slightly insulting, (even though Dean is careful to keep his thoughts on the ridiculousness of Edenish armor to himself). He scowls and pouts a lot. “I do not see why you insist on wearing mail like a common foot solider Dean. Plate offers superior protection.”

Given that he’s not actually going to be wearing the damn stuff into battle, just sitting on a horse in it – which must be incredibly uncomfortable surely?? – Dean doesn’t understand why Castiel is so insistent. It is not until a servant leaves a new cloak and several tunics sitting atop his clothing chest – dark Edenish things picked out with silver thread and decorated with the royal crest - that he gets an inkling of Castiel’s motives, and suddenly his obstinacy over the armor is amusing instead of annoying.

The way Cas flushes and darts little looks at Dean out of the corner of his eyes the first time he wears one of the tunics and the new cloak, confirms his suspicions. Castiel likes seeing Dean dressed up in Edenish things, in his colors. He seems distracted all day, staring when he thinks Dean is not watching. That evening he pays little attention to anyone else at the high table during dinner and sits so close to Dean that their thighs brush and their shoulders bump. Castiel seems to have no idea his behavior is so obvious. Dean smiles into his wine but refrains from teasing him until they retire to their bed.

The way Castiel more or less drags him back to their chamber though, pulling him from the hall before the final course has even been cleared, is too much and he laughs as the heavy chamber door is shut on their guards. Castiel frowns, knowing he’s the butt of Dean’s amusement but not sure how, and kisses him. Except Dean is smiling and it makes kisses strange and difficult and after a minute Castiel draws back with a huff.

“ _What_ is so amusing?” he demands, brows furrowed in way that makes Dean’s smile break into an outright grin.

“Nothing husband,” Dean replies, slipping into formal Enochian, testing another theory. “I find you most pleasing.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow like he thinks he is being made fun of, but a blush flares across his cheeks. Dean smirks as he steps away from the door and right up close to him, lets his hands skim up Cas’s arms and curl around his shoulders.

“I find… I find you very pleasing, too,” Castiel says, a little breathlessly, eyes gone wide and guileless.

Dean smiles again and ruffles Castiel’s dark hair fondly. “I know you do-” he says, leaning in and kissing him softly. “-husband.” The way Castiel’s breath hitches at that word is obvious when Dean’s lips are pressed against his. Dean files that away, along with everything else he’s discovered that makes Castiel squirm, and then let’s his smile drop so he can kiss him properly. Castiel’s hands twist in the dark cloth of Dean’s Edenish tunic and pull him closer.

*

Time seems to slip away in a blur, the Edenish soldiers drilling, Castiel frowning at maps or sparring with Balthazar and Uriel - swinging long blunted Edenish swords - servants and squires rushing around packing and repacking - the entire keep alive with hurried activity, Dean washed along with them like a leaf in a stream. Somehow it is still a shock to find himself waking up early on the day they ride, aware of the strange fact that he will not share this room or this bed with Castiel again.

Dean knows Castiel is awake before he even opens his eyes - he can feel his fingers stroking through the short hair on the nape of his neck. It is spring, but only just, and still cold. Dean has an arm thrown across Castiel’s chest and his head tucked against the warmth of his side. He sighs and doesn’t move for a little bit. He enjoys these moments. Castiel is not overly demonstrative with his affection. He offers his arm when they walk together, or touches his shoulder to get his attention, but no more. It is only when they are in bed that that seems to change.

When they are alone and lying next to one another Castiel is almost… _clingy_.

It is novel, having someone kiss him and touch him just for the sake of it and not something Dean has ever really experienced before. He would never have guessed, but he finds that he likes it. The gentle brush of Castiel’s fingers as they card through his hair and the warmth of his body against Dean is… nice. Very nice. Much better than laying abed alone. It’s easy to ignore the noise of the keep awakening around them, to push aside the knowledge that he should get up. Castiel seems to be in no rush either, so Dean just lays there dozing for a few minutes.

Eventually, Cas seems to realize he’s awake. “Dean?” he murmurs, his lips brushing the top of Dean’s mussed hair as he speaks.

Dean moans in both reply and denial and burrows deeper.

“We should get up,” Cas continues, though he doesn’t sound too enthusiastic. His hand drifts down Dean’s neck and settles warm across his shoulder. A crashing noise and the sound of someone yelling in Latin drifts through the shuttered windows.

Dean sighs and rolls away onto his back. Cold air assaults him as the bedding is disrupted and his skin prickles as he stretches the sleep out of his limbs. Finally, with a yawn, he opens his eyes. Castiel is staring at him, smiling slightly. Dean assumes he has been laying there awake for a while, since he’s not squinty-eyed and scowly as he usually is first thing in the morning.

Dean sits up and looks around the room, blinking blearily. It’s still grey, not long past dawn. The fire hasn’t been banked, there’s no tealet alone breakfast on the table and it’s _cold._ “I’ve changed my mind,” he declares, falling back down into the beding, closing his eyes and rolling himself up in the furs again. “I’m gonna stay here and you can ride off up the pass alone.”

Castiel huffs in amusement but rises from the bed without comment. Except a minute later Dean is wide-eyed and gasping with the cold and Castiel is grinning at him, the furs yanked off the bed and bundled in his arms. “You ass!” Dean says, trying to pull the covers back. Castiel just sniggers and backs away from the bed, taking them out of his reach.

Dean rolls his eyes and gets to his feet with a sigh. “ _Fine_. I’m up.” To get back at him he pulls his nightshirt off and throws it at Castiel’s head. His husband stops laughing and instead blushes and stares. Dean ignores him, and splashes his face with water at the washing stand. “We could’ve stayed in bed,” he says, low and teasing. “Could have found a better reason to get naked than to put on my armor.”

“Dean,” Castiel admonishes, somehow managing to sound both annoyed, amused and interested all at once. When Dean glances at him he’s still clutching at his nightshirt and the bedding. Dean winks and his blush darkens.

Their gear has been packed, the only things left out their armor and underthings. They wash and dress with only a little more teasing, Dean helping Casitel with his many buckles and clasps in place of one of his squires, and then Castiel offers Dean his arm. His vambrace is cold under Dean’s fingers. He glances around the room once more as Castiel leads him to the door. It looks strangely empty - chests and gear all packed away. Ion latches the door after them as they make their way down the twisting stair, and it falls into place with loud thud. Dean looks back over his shoulder, past their guards and up to the dark studded wood of the door, uneasy all of sudden, his good mood gone sour with some odd chill. When he glances at Castiel, his face has lost the amused glint and he looks suitably regal and sober. Dean schools his features to match, dismissing his odd mood.

A lavish breakfast awaits them in the High Hall, the tables and trestles packed with knights in uncommonly good cheer considering the grey hour.

They are all in their armor, gleaming plate topped with bright cloaks and tunics. Even Benny and Victor seem to have spent a little time polishing and tending to their gear, despite the fact that they won’t be actually riding into battle. The mood is almost festive, the knights at the lower tables laughing and talking loudly and the lords and captains at the high table almost as animated, if slightly more restrained. Normally Dean would enjoy such an atmosphere, but the fact that he won’t really be joining them has him frowning down at his oats.

Balthazar, who is seated beside Dean owing to the fact that Princess Raphael and the others of higher birth present have chosen seats to facilitate conversation rather than allot honor and rank, notices his mood despite his attempts to appear as excited as everyone else. “Don’t look so morose Prince Dean,” he says. “The king’s pavilion is more comfortable than that drafty old tower you’ve been stuck in all winter. Bigger too. And you won’t be huddling under your cloak and horse blanket.” He leans closer and lowers his voice. “Last time we were on campaign I stole half of Cassie’s bedding, but his servants pile so many silks and furs on his bedroll that his Majesticness didn’t even notice.”

Dean huffs in soft amusement. When he is teasing someone else, Balthazar is actually almost funny. Castiel turns at the sound and gives Balthazar strange look, his eyes narrowing, like maybe he doesn’t trust his friend not to say something insulting or inappropriate. Dean gives Cas a little nod of reassurance and leans towards him so their shoulders bump a little, letting him know that his friend is behaving himself. Castiel’s expression clears but he still gives Balthazar one last squinty glare of warning before he turns back to his aunt.

Balthazar rolls his eyes and pulls a face at the king’s back and Dean smiles a little around a mouthful of oats thick with cream. No one else treats Castiel like anything less than a king, and perhaps it’s disrespectful, but Balthazar’s disregard for Castiel’s status reminds Dean of the friendship he shares with his thegn despite being their aetheling. In fact, he remembers, it had been Castiel’s talk of Balthazar, that day at the paracleda tourney months and months ago, when he’d bitten back a laugh after Dean knocked Balthazar off his horse and called him an ass for stealing a kiss, that he’d first gotten a glimpse of the man he was married to, as opposed to the king.

It is still early, the sun low and the air frosty despite the turn of spring, when they finally mount up and move out. It’s both like and unlike any army he has ridden with before. To start with it is larger - _far_ larger. Dean has only ridden with his uncle’s riders, usually in parties counting in the hundreds, not thousands. The full fyrd of Wessex has not been raised since his mother’s death and his father’s aborted invasion of Perdition in retaliation. It’s annoying that he will not see them now now, perhaps never will. There will be no need to raise such a force once Crowley is dealt with - a _good_ thing - Dean reminds himself, quashing down his disappointment.

Their departure itself is something of an anticlimax. Castiel and his captains go and pray to their god in the old keep’s chapel briefly, and then Lord Joshua bids them a formal farewell at the great door of the inner keep, and… that is that. They mount up and ride. Dean had expected the Edenish to stand on more ceremony, and is pleasantly surprised. It is noisier – the rattle of plate on men and horse alike –  and the knights riding near Castiel are respectfully quiet, but otherwise it’s more or less like riding amid the rídend. It’s only when he looks over his shoulder and sees the long snake of men following behind, thousands of them, that Dean remembers he’s at the head of a huge army - an invasion force.

He still thinks the Edenish knights look silly in their shiny plate and bright barding, but he has to admit seeing so many of them all marching together as one, is impressive. It’s a shame he won’t actually get to see them in action. He’s still curious about how they actually fare in battle with their long swords and heavy armor. Castiel and knights have been repelling Crowley and his minions for years, like his father before him, and if they have not been as successful at protecting their lands as the West Saxons, they have certainly held their own. So obviously their bizarre tactics must come together and work on the battlefield, Dean just can’t quite picture it.

The anxiety that had Castiel frowning more often of late seems to lift right off his shoulders as they ride, and the morning passes quite pleasantly. Dean rides at his side, Princess Raphael and other royal kin nearby, and there is some quiet conversation as they head up the pass and into the range proper to cross into Perdition. Zachariah rides with his garrison further back and no one else sees fit to give Dean dark looks in his place. Despite his widely speculated upon illness and subsequent confinement, the weeks spent sparring in the yards have been enough to cultivate a reputation as capable with sword and shield, and the few who had argued that war was no place for a king’s consort soon shut up with the fierce scowls Castiel threw around. His place riding at Castiel’s side appears accepted by and large. There is no muttering or glaring like he suffered on the ride from Zion.

It is a difficult ride, their path steep and winding, and it is slow going despite the repairs Castiel had seen to the road over winter. Spring is breaking over them but high up in the pass it seems to make little difference - the snow has not melted and the ground is icy and treacherous. They are forced to stop and clear fallen rocks and ice blocking their way on several occasions and to reinforce sections that have slipped with fresh hewn lumber so the men in the rear and the baggage train do not become stuck as the frosty ground is churned into mud.

Their stops have been planned out and prepared for, clearings and spurs amidst the range with shelter from the wind and room enough to make camp, albeit cramped. Despite Balthazar’s talk of a pavilion, it is a small tent much like the one they’d shared on the ride from Zion that Dean finds pitched for himself and Castiel. He does not mind. The bedroll is comfortable after the long ride and Castiel warm and eager to pull him into his arms.

It takes several days slow march to cross the mountains where a man might have ridden in two if he hurried. Dean does not begrudge the slow pace however and neither does Castiel. It is plain that the king is eager to finally face Crowley and see him pushed back from his lands once and for all, to see the treaty between Eden and Wessex finally pay off after years of planning, but Dean thinks he will be missed and that perhaps Castiel is glad of a little more time shared with him.

They make better time on the second day as the men become accustomed to the pace and despite being a little sore from so long in the saddle after months of rarely riding at all - Dean sends a few slow looks Castiel’s way over the shared evening meal, bites on his bottom lip and looks up at him through his lashes in that way that makes him stare. Castiel finishes his meal very quickly and they retire to their tent while everyone else is still talking and laughing around the camp fires. They go through the pretense of preparing for sleep, but reach for one another the moment they are abed and spend most of the evening tangled up, moaning and gasping into each other’s mouths.

The third day marks the beginning of their long descent down the range and gravity of the situation, that Dean will soon be leaving, seems to catch up with them both. There is no need for long looks over the evening meal, Castiel pulls Dean into his arms the moment their tent is raised. He has a squire bring food to them and they eat abed instead of out with the others, getting crumbs in the furs and blankets. He seems to spend most of the fourth day looking at Dean out of the corner of his eyes as they ride and Dean can tell that moment their tent is up he will be drawing Dean down to the furs with messy kisses and fervent caresses. The thought has him shifting in his saddle and heat flaring his cheeks.

Dean’s lips are chapped and his cheeks rubbed pink from the rasp of Castiel’s stubble, but he doesn’t care. He likes Castiel’s kisses, will miss the warmth and taste of him. He finds himself sucking marks across his winter-pale skin, leaving pink and purple bruises across his collarbones or on the bony juts of his hips. He likes the look of them, like to pull Castiel’s armor and underclothes from him and find them waiting there. Kisses seem more real with they leave a mark. He has to restrain the urge to bite and scratch, to leave something more permanent etched into his husband’s skin. From the way Castiel leaves faint bite marks along his throat and little finger-bruises on his hips and thighs, he thinks the strange urge is mutual.

Dean doesn’t want to go.

They do not discuss their impending separation. A tent does not have stone walls and voices carry. As far as everyone else is aware, Dean is riding to war, not down to the foothills and back in some long-winded farewell. The way they fall upon one another the moment camp is made is taken as youthful enthusiasm and nothing more.

On the fourth day they wind their way down into the foothills, out of the lingering snow and ice. The camp that springs up around them as they stop that night is very different to that which Dean is used to and very different to the cramped camps they had made along the pass proper. With the room to spread out, it is far more organize - long orderly lines of tents sleeping several men, with larger ones and full pavilions doted about for the high born knights and lords.

Castiel’s of course is the most grand, marked not only by its size but by the silken pennants and the royal standard raised before it. The small tent is gone, replaced with a bright pavilion furnished more like a palace apartment than a tent. Taking in the carpets and gilded furniture, Dean suddenly understands why the baggage train is so long. Castiel accepts the vast change in their accommodations without batting an eyelid.

“Is all this really necessary?” Dean asks after he’s looked around.

Castiel, who is sitting on a painted camp chair while his squires remove his armor doesn’t seem to even understand the question. He frowns in confusion and tilts his head. “All of what?” he asks. The picture he makes sitting there, gilded armor being unbuckled by boys in bright tunics, a cupbearer at one arm with his wine, rich patterned carpet under his boots and a circlet set with gems on his brow is so strange to Dean, so far from what he is accustomed to, that despite living with the Edenish so long, he suddenly feels as out of place as he did the first time he stood before Castiel on his throne in Zion.

Dean shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

The highborn members of his host join them for the evening meal now that there is a space large enough to seat them all. His kin Princess Raphael, Lady Ariel, Lord Uriel, Lady Hester and Sir Samandiriel join Sir Balthazar, Sir Zachariah and a few others Dean is not so well acquainted with at the finely carved table the servants set out. The meal passes much like one back at the keep, and mercifully Zachariah excuses himself as soon as the third course is clear, citing tiredness. It is plain however, that he is not over-popular with the King or his favorites at the moment and Dean doubts his retreat is anything save a tactical one.

He wonders _again_ at Castiel’s wisdom in keeping the man so close. He understands his desire to have him where he can ‘keep an eye on him’ as he says, but the more Dean sees of Zachariah the _less_ he knows of the man, and that fact is worrying. Since there is nothing he can do about it save tell Castiel, _again_ to be wary of him, Dean just sips at his wine and focuses on the figures who remain seated at the table, fantasizing idly in the back of his head about arranging for Zachariah’s tent to be tragically trampled in the night by spooked horses.

Raphael, Ariel and Castiel are discussing the speed they are making, estimating how it will increase on the flatter terrain and if the poor repair of Crowley’s roadways will slow them overmuch, Balthazar appears to be pointlessly seducing the obviously very willing Samandiriel and Uriel and Lady Hester are sitting across from the pair radiating stone-faced disapproval. All in all it is one of the more awkward tables Dean has found himself sat at. Sadly he’s stuck for the time being. The pavilion is divided, a private sleeping area partitioned off behind them, but excusing himself to lay down mere feet from the table and separated by only a layer of bright silk, seems ridiculous. He attempts to make the most of it, after all, he’s not sure how much more he will see of them and there is only one more day’s ride before them.

Even if the war goes well, it is unlikely that they will _all_ return. Normally that would not bother Dean, he is used to seeing rídend fall in battle, has seen many good men cut down, but the fact that he will not be with them risking the same makes him uncomfortable. It is strange to be riding with an army that he is not truly a part of, makes him feel like an imposter dressed up in armor for show. A pretender playing at being a warrior, not an aetheling or rídend in truth.

He looks at Castiel where he sits on a gilded camp chair, a heavy silver cup in one hand. There is a gleaming silver circlet resting against his short dark hair and he is wearing one of the long dark robes he favors, its elaborate silver embroidery catching in the firelight. The others are all richly dressed as well. The entire scene is surreal. It is nothing like Lord Robert’s campaign tent. It seems more suited to a wedding feast than a war council. He glances around the table. Castiel’s guests aren’t even armed. Balthazar is wearing _silk_ \- and not only that, his lurid tunic is unfastened at the neck to display the half dozen necklaces and jewelled pendants he is wearing.

“Dean?”

Dean snaps his head from where he’s been staring with transfixed horror at Balthazar’s chest hair. From the raised eyebrow and the tone he can tell Castiel’s been trying to get his attention for a while. “Yes?” he says, leaning towards him and giving him his full attention.

The king indicates the map spread across the table between himself and his aunt. Dean recognizes the borders, towns and rivers picked out, even though they look strange with Enochian scrawled over them, spelling out names that aren’t quite right. “I have not had word from King John since the day before we departed the keep – where will he ford the [Leye](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/River_Lea)?” Castiel asks, tracing the river that weaves across Essex before meeting up with the [Tamese](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thames) and winding past [Lundenwic](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aldwych) and Crowley’s fortress where it squats in the [ruins](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anglo-Saxon_London) there, and heading for the sea.

“The _Ligan_?” Dean corrects, refusing to call the river by the _obviously_ incorrect Enochian name. He taps his finger to an unmarked spot along it, guessing an approximate position. “Hertford,” he says. “Unless he has to ride around, which he might. The full fyrd ride fast, but they won’t get far across Perdition without Crowley noticing.”

Raphael hums in acknowledgement and traces the line of the river. “I know the ford you speak of,” she says. “Smaller rivers join the Leye nearby?”

Dean nods. “Yes, but I’m just repeating things I’ve seen on maps. I’ve never been so deep into Perdition myself. I’ve never been on this side of the Tamese.”

“Nor I the other,” Castiel says. “We have not ventured so far since my father’s time.”

“I am not sure even Michael ever came so far south,” Raphael says. “He focused upon Anglia.”

Dean nods. They are currently in what was once Essex, it makes sense that King Michael would have focused his attacks upon the lost Edenish lands in the north instead of the fallen Saxon kingdom in the south.

“Perhaps he should have,” Castiel says, frowning at the map. “Left unharried, Crowley has been able to forge a secure base for himself in these lands.”

Raphael’s eyes slide to Dean for a moment. “Your father was of the opinion that his duty was first and foremost to the Christians of Anglia, that the Saxons must look to their own kind for aid.”

Despite this apparent disdain for the pagans of Essex, the Princess seems to know at least as much as Dean about the lands they are marching through and apart from corrections to the odd Edenish names she has for everything, Dean has no great insight to offer. If they were further south, in the borderlands he has ridden through many times, perhaps he would have something especial add, but they will not be passing that way. John and his army rides north, Castiel’s south, and they will meet in the middle of Essex and ride on Crowley’s capital together.

Balthazar and Samandiriel depart together soon after and Castiel stares after them, scowling a little. It is plain he does not approve of whatever is going on between them, and given that he’s fond of his younger cousin, Dean doesn’t blame him. Amusing or not, he wouldn’t want Balthazar anywhere near any kin of his. Uriel, Hester and Ariel soon follow, retiring to their tents, but Raphael and Castiel remain hunched over maps for quite a while longer. Long enough for the camp to grow quite still and quiet and for Dean to finish another cup of wine and start yawning.

The Princess catches him trying to hide one behind his cup and looks around like she’s just realized how late it’s getting. She stands abruptly. “I will leave you to your rest your majesty,” she tells Castiel, nodding politely at Dean as she leaves.

Dean bids her goodnight and heads straight towards the tied back curtain separating the smaller sleeping area of the pavilion.  Castiel lingers over the maps a little longer, though Dean can’t for the life of him figure out why. Everything has been planned out meticulously, there is nothing Castiel will suddenly realize staring at parchment in the firelight. Dean has washed up, changed and is already tucked up under the furs, blinking sleepily, when Castiel joins him. He watches Castiel go about his own absolutions absently, a furrow to his brow. Thinking about rivers and fords and maps still no doubt.

He’s cold when he slips under the covers, but Dean graciously lets him pull him closer and steal his warmth. “Goodnight Dean,” he says and Dean replies in kind, mumbling the words against his collarbone.

He can tell from how stiffly Castiel is laying beside that he is still thinking, still worrying over things he can do nothing about, that he has already prepared as best as he can for. Dean considers kissing him, distracting him with more pleasant things, but he’s already half asleep and the thought remains just that, a thought.

***

They ride longer than usual on the fifth day, pressing on as the foothills fade into the fields of Perdition. Dean has ridden across Perdition soil before, but the marshes that border Wessex leagues to the south are a far cry from the windy, rock-strewn plains the mountains of Eden give way too. It is nothing like the woods and pastures that crowd up against the foothills on the Edenish side of the range either. It is just grass and dirt, bare and flat save for the occasional gray outcropping of stone or lonely copse of dark elm. There is nothing particularly sinister about it, but for some reason Dean finds it disquieting. It is very quiet, no birds, just the wind and the sounds of the march around them. Under the sweat stink of men and horses, the dry scent of old ash lingers faintly in the air.

The road is grassy and unkempt and every now and then Dean picks out faded lines and mounds in the grass and scrub, traces of farms long abandoned and fields left to fall fallow. As they ride the signs of Crowley’s rule increase. Stands of scorched trees hung with old bones and rags and the burned out husks of villages.

Dean feels unsteady, anxious. He does not like the quiet. He’d almost welcome an ambush just for something to focus upon instead than the empty fields. When they make camp he does not wait for Castiel to reach for him, instead he does the reaching. Castiel clutches at him tightly in return, kissing him fervently, hurried little nips and bites as he presses Dean down onto the furs, silks and pillows that comprise the king’s ‘bedroll’ - which is every bit as ridiculous Balthazar claimed. Castiel’s hands seem to be everywhere all at once, his mouth and teeth trailing behind. Dean’s heart hammers in chest and his skin pricks and shivers as Castiel touches him.

He still doesn’t understand it, how Castiel’s touch can feel so different to anyone else’s. His body seems to have embraced the effect whole-heartedly however. He feels almost like a passenger in his own skin, his body responding to Castiel like an instrument Dean is no longer playing.  His neck arches back and suddenly Castiel’s mouth is there and the scrap of blunt teeth and swipe of tongue has Dean moaning and his fingers twisting in his dark hair. They are not speaking, and yet they are. Their bodies seem to be fluent some language Dean never knew he spoke. Castiel lifts his face and Dean is turning into his kiss before he even realizes it is coming. It is different to how it had been at the keep. Castiel had kissed him softly then, and they had often lain in their bed wrapped around each other for a long time before the kisses and touches became more purposeful.

Now Castiel yanks and pulls at Dean’s clothes, his body, and in short order Dean finds himself whimpering into his hand, trying desperately to be quiet on account of the thin layer of cloth separating them from the noise of the camp close all around, a difficult task what with Castiel’s mouth hot and wet over his dick and two of his fingers sunk slick and thick into his body. He’s still half-dressed - trousers tangled around one leg and tunic shoved up under his armpits - and Castiel has not even removed his boots. For some reason the fact that he’s still fully dressed is exciting. Dean can feel the scratch of Castiel’s tunic beneath the leg he has hooked over his shoulder. Looking down is almost too much. The sight of him so disheveled – cheeks flushes, dark hair shoved back messily and lips stretched pink and wide around Dean’s dick – has heat coiling ever faster at the base of Dean’s spine.

Then Cas opens his eyes and looks up at Dean as he slowly lifts his head and sinks back down, his cheeks distending and his fingers stroking slow and deep where they are buried inside, and the entire thing is so… so _obscene_ that Dean forgets himself and moans loudly, a noise that will surely carry. Castiel doesn’t seem to care about being overheard however because he doesn’t pause, just keeps slowly sliding his mouth up and down, his fingers pressing into that shivery place inside, pausing every now and then to suck and tongue at the leaking head of Dean’s dick.

Dean rolls his hips, pushing back onto those thick fingers and then up into the heat of Cas’s mouth and it feels so good, feels better than anything ever, that he can’t help the little noises bubbling out of his throat no matter how he bites at his lips. He’s close, balanced on a shivery knife-edge, and he knows that when he comes it will feel like something stripped out of his very bones, will feel incredible, but like this, writhing under Cas - he can’t deny that he wants _more._ Castiel’s fingers feel so good, he can’t help but wriggle on them, try and get them deeper, harder. He knows if he asks, if he says _‘More Cas,’_ he will end up wailing into the pillow as Castiel uses those fingers to fuck into him hard and fast – and it will feel amazing – but--

“Cas,” he says, his voice gone all low and desperate as it tends to when Castiel touches him like this. “I want you to fuck me.”

Castiel freezes, and if Dean was any less turned on, he’d probably laugh at the sight he makes, Dean’s wet dick hanging out of his mouth and an expression of wide-eyed shock on his face.  Dean rolls his hips, grinding down on his fingers, and Cas sits up a little, pulling off him. A wet trail of spit stretches between Dean’s cock and his swollen, red mouth. Dean stares.  “Dean we spoke of this,” he says, but it’s plain from his tone that he is tempted and his fingers are still pressing slowly circles against Dean from the inside, making him ache and throb.

And yes they _have_ spoken of it, but now that Dean’s given voice to it, his want is suddenly a thousand times greater, no longer just some smothered shameful urge. “Just don’t… finish in me,” he says. The men at camp claimed it a fairly effective technique and truly – despite what the doctor said – Castiel spent _months_ filling Dean with his seed and no child caught. The chances of _one_ attempt proving successful now seems ludicrous.

“Dean,” Castiel says, low like a warning, but his name is drawn out, almost pleasing and Dean knows he wants this just as bad as he does.

“Please Cas, I want you to,” Dean begs, because he does, for a whole bunch of confusing reasons that he can’t quite sort in his head. First and foremost, _he_ wants it. It’s a base thing, a thrum in his blood that has him rocking back on Castiel’s slick fingers, reveling in the feel of them inside. Ever since Cas first touched Dean like that, slid his fingers into him and took him apart from within,a part of him has _wondered_ and it’s only gotten louder. The thought of it, of Castiel sinking into him, pressing in deep and firm up against that tingly spot inside with something much bigger than fingers, has Dean practically beside himself with confused want.

It doesn’t make any sense, but he feels like something has changed and it will be… good, different than before. That’s what he wants - for Castiel to fuck him and for it to feel good. As good, better even, than his fingers, so good he’ll be able to forget all the times it was agony. And even if it’s not, even if he’s got it all wrong and it’s terrible, thinking about it is driving him mad and he needs to know one way or the other.

But apart from his own confusing desires, he knows Castiel wants him, and there’s a chance he won’t come back, and maybe it’s a cliché, but Dean wants to give him that.

He’s given him more, before, when Castiel was a stranger to him.

If Dean never sees him again, he doesn’t want the last time they laid together to be a half-remembered, feverish rut – something taken not given.

Castiel swallows and bites at his bottom lip. Dean watches the movement, wondering if Cas is tasting _him_ there. “It is not a good idea.”

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean starts, plaintive, then slips into Castiel’s native tongue, the Enochian thick and strange on his tongue. “I want you to take that cock of yours--” He reaches down and takes his own neglected dick in hand in demonstration. It’s tacky with Cas’s spit. Dean moans, both at the feel and that Castiel is watching. Because he is, wide-eyed. He staring down at the steady motion of Dean’s hand like he’s hypnotized. Dean draws in an unsteady breath. “-- And fuck me with it,” he finishes.

Cas’s eyes dart up to meet Dean’s. His cheeks are red and for a man who just has a dick his mouth and still has his fingers up someone’s ass, manages to look remarkably scandalized. Dean holds in a smirk. Learning a few crude words in Enochian seems to have been a good idea. “I wanna come with you inside me,” Dean tells him, and thinks that the idea of that might excite him as much as it does Castiel. “And then you’re gonna pull out, and come all over _me._ ”

Castiel is completely still. Dean licks his lips and gives Castiel a look that he hopes is seductive, but he’s so turned on he’s having difficultly thinking straight. “Take off your clothes and fuck me Cas.”

Dean misses Castiel’s fingers when he draws back and starts obeying, but he distracts himself by pulling off the last of his own clothes, tossing them aside carelessly. Castiel more or less falls upon him and Dean pulls him in, wraps his legs around him and kisses him. Castiel moans into his mouth, his name maybe, and Dean can taste himself on his tongue. Bitter. Castiel is hard and warm against his hip and the thought that soon that is going to be inside him is both exhilarating and terrifying. Most of him is convinced this is a great idea, that he and Castiel are finally going to have real sex, that it’s going to be even better than all the other things they’ve done, and Dean will ride back to Zion with that memory at least. The rest of him is panicking, saying that it’s going to hurt and be awful and the thing between them, this friendship and affection, is going to be ruined.

Dean ignores that voice and focuses on the good. Castiel had said once that he would _chose_ Dean, and Dean thinks now… that he would chose Castiel too. Despite everything.

Castiel slicks his fingers up again and Dean doesn’t even bother to try and stay quiet as they slide back into him. He lets every moan and sigh out as they come, delights in the way each whimper and gasp seems to excite Castiel more and more until the man is sweating and pink like he’s been in a fight for his life, not tangled up with Dean in the bed linen. He’s pumping his fingers in and out quickly now, the hot ache of them making Dean’s dick dribble and throb in his fist and his ass clench and twitch. “Come on Cas,” he moans, hitching his legs up higher around his waist. _“fuck me.”_

Castiel groans at the profanity, his head bowing forward to rest against Dean’s shoulder for a moment, and then he’s up on his knees and fumbling beside the bedroll. He straightens with the bottle of oil in his grasp and tips some - far too much probably - onto his palm, before tossing it aside carelessly. Dean watches as it rolls in a wide arc across the dark carpet, leaving a honey-colored trail behind it. After staring for a moment, transfixed, the wet sound of Castiel slicking himself up draws attention back to the bed. His eyes dart down and gets a glimpse of it – Castiel’s cock flushed and wet in his fist - but then he’s being kissed and he can only feel it, hard and hot against his hip, his belly.

Castiel kisses him deeply, all teeth and tongue. Dean waits, but he doesn’t ask him to roll over or to get on his knees, he just guides his legs to wrap around his waist, and then he’s there, between Dean’s thighs, warm and wet and hard against his over-sensitive skin. A low, wordless, pleading noise bubbles our of Dean’s throat and Cas hisses, his hips jerking like they have a mind of their own, his dick rubbing up against Dean’s ass, hot and teasing. At some point he’s let go of his dick but Dean feels it twitch now, stiff and aching against his belly.

He feels like his head might burst. He’s shaking and he can’t remember even wanting something so much as he wants Castiel to fuck him and then Cas gasps his name and Dean realizes he’s saying all that out loud, begging Castiel to _“-fuck me please please oh Cas fuck me--”_ but Castiel just kisses him again, rougher than before, and licks the filth right out of his mouth. He braces himself over Dean and then he’s right _there_ , blunt head of him pressing against his opening and then pressing _in_ and it feels so good, feels like everything Dean hoped and he moans, digs his fingers into Cas’s shoulder and arches his back, trying desperately to get more, make it better.

“Dean,” Cas pants more or less directly into his mouth and then he’s rolling into Dean, pushing into him and it’s hot, the deep stretch of him, achingly perfect, and then, and then, it’s… it’s sharp. And it…

And it hurts.

Dean shoves down on that feeling though, and it’s not so bad really, not nearly as bad as he remembers, no tearing just, a deep hot ache that makes him want to hiss in pain, not scream in agony. He thinks he’ll be angry later, bitter that he was wrong and he and Castiel will _never_ get to share this act the way there were supposed to, but for the moment he just hangs onto Castiel and tries to will the pain away.

Abruptly Cas goes still. Completely. “Dean?” he asks.

Dean strokes a hand down his back, shift his hips, tries to someone alleviate the throb in his ass from where Cas’s cock is wedged tight only a little ways in him. “S’okay,” he says, trying to keep his voice light.

Castiel pulls back though, lifts himself up on to his knees, and Dean cannot quite smother the hiss of pain when he withdraws. “I’m hurting you,” he says and Dean is momentarily amazed by how a man can go from half mad with lust to looking like his favorite hound died in mere moments.

“Only a little bit,” Dean says, reaching for him.

Castiel glances down to where Dean has gone soft. “Please don’t do that,” he says quietly. “Please don’t… lie. I don’t want to hurt you.” He swallows. “I know… I know I have hurt you. Don’t lie about this. Please don’t pretend.”

“Cas I – I’m sorry,” Dean says just because Castiel sounds so upset.

Castiel frowns and shakes his head. “Don’t apologize,” he says, “You have done nothing wrong. Just be truthful.” He finally lifts his eyes to Dean’s again. They shine in the low light like they are wet. “We don’t have to do these things, you do know that don’t you?”

He has gone pale where he was pink and flushed only a minute before.

Dean sits up and reaches for Castiel, cupping his face. “I wasn’t pretending Cas, I promise. None of that - that was all me, it was just right at the end there, it um, stung a little. That’s all.”

“You don’t have to touch me,” Castiel tells him, like he hasn’t heard. “You don’t have to kiss me.”

“I know I know,” Dean says, “But I want to, you know that.”

Castiel closes his eyes, lets Dean drawn him closer, press their lips together softly. “I can’t bear to think of it,” he says quietly. “How I hurt you.”

“Then don’t think on it,” Dean tells him. “Things are different now remember?” And they have never spoken of it out loud, but they are, so very different. “I’d chose you,” Dean says, pressing a soft kiss to Cas’s lips. “That’s why,” he admits. “I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want you to ride off without me. I’m not used to waiting behind. I should be with you. What if you don’t come back?”

Finally Castiel seems to come back to himself. “Dean,” he says then kisses him. “Dean I promise,” another kiss. “I’ll come back,” another. “I’ll do anything you ask.”

Dean tugs him back, pulls him down into the bedding once more. “Kiss me,” he says.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thank you to [ashton](artsyunderstudy.tumblr.com) for betaing this chapter for me! God knows how long I would have procrastinated over it if she hadn't offered. You guys should check out her new deancas abo fic [In Our Nature](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1597991), cause it's amazing, and if you are reading my stuff I know you love angst.

The canvas of Castiel’s pavilion is lit up by nearby campfires, long shadows flickering and shifting as people weave their way around the camp. Dean can hear the guards just outside, the creak of their armor as they shift on their feet and the low buzz of their voices as they talk quietly to each other. Beyond them cheering and singing and other commotion drifts across the night air from a dozen different directions. In comparison to the near festive air of the men encamped all around them, it is quiet and still in Dean and Castiel’s tent.

They are laying on their sides, facing one another with arms and legs entwined. Everywhere they touch is warm. Castiel’s eyes are closed and his breathing is even and slow, but he is not asleep. One of his feet rubs slowly against Dean’s shin where their legs are slotted together and every now and then he shifts a little. It is a strange moment, some drawn out lull in time. Dean isn’t sleepy at all. Instead he feels oddly awkward and giddy. After their disastrous attempt at having sex they had brought each other pleasure in simpler ways, and although his heart has long since calmed, he can still feel a blush hot on his cheeks. Embarrassment lingers, but there is also a nervous anxiety. This will be the last time he lays with Castiel like this for the gods know how long.

He wants to say something, but he can’t quite find the words. Even in the quiet of his own head they elude him. He doesn’t really know what Castiel is to him and why he is so anxious at being parted from him. It is only thinking of his father and his silences, of that stilted farewell on the palace steps in Zion, that makes him finally open his mouth to try and get it out.

“I’ll miss you,” he blurts, and Castiel goes very still. The burn of his cheeks grows hotter and Dean ducks his face so all Castiel can see of him is the top of his head.  “And I don’t like that I won’t be with you,” he continues in a rush, words mumbled against Cas’s chest as he tries to get it all out as quickly as possible. “I never liked it when my uncle rode into battle without me, and I like the thought of you doing so even less. I should be there.”

Castiel leans forward and presses a kiss to his brow. Then he smiles - Dean feels the shape of it against his skin. “Perhaps it is selfish, but I for one am glad you will be in Zion with Anael. You have a knack for finding trouble. You would attract every stray arrow on the field I think.” He pauses and his voice turns slightly teasing. “And since you _refuse_ to wear plate, my concern in that regard is valid I think.”

Dean snorts and pinches Cas in the side, making him huff and squirm. A part of him is annoyed at Castiel turning his confession to jest, but mostly he is relieved. “I’ll have you know that I wasn’t accident prone _at all_ until I met you. It was my brother Sam that was forever falling off horses and out of trees. I was the responsible one.”

“You?” Cas drawls. “The _responsible_ one?”

Dean pinches him again, harder, but he can tell Castiel is just teasing and doesn’t mean anything by it. After a few minutes silence Castiel asks: “What is your brother like? Truly?”

“Quiet,” Dean says after a moment. “He likes to read, has always loved his tutors and his lessons. He still likes to ride and fight though, and he’s strong, good with a sword or spear. He was almost as tall as me when I saw him last, and he’s four years younger.”

“When was that? Before you rode north with your father?”

“No. Father sent him away before he summoned me to Winchester.” Dean decides to avoid mentioning the reason for that – Sam’s disapproval at the way their father had arranged Dean’s match to Castiel. Bringing that up will only make his husband guilty again, and he has seen enough of that for one night. “I haven’t seen him in… closer to two years than one now,” he finishes.

Castiel hums thoughtfully and then after a moment says, hesitant and unsure, “I could invite him to stay for a time in Zion when the war is done if you like? Or perhaps we could pay your father a visit in Winchester?”

Warmth blooms in Dean’s chest at the thought of seeing his little brother again. He had hoped to see him once Crowley had been dealt with, but dared not think too seriously on it. “I’d like that,” he replies. “I’ve only had one letter from him, and we were close when we were young.”

Castiel sighs. “You miss him,” he says, and it is not a question. “I must admit I have delayed in seeking a match for Anael for similar reasons. I do not want her leaving Zion. That she is my heir has formed a convenient excuse to keep her close and deny suitors.”

“You could always marry her to some Lord that lives at court,” Dean suggests.

“Perhaps, but who? There are precious few of appropriate birth, and of those, fewer still that are unwed, and _none_ I would trust with my sister’s happiness.”

“So what, you think you’ll just keep in the palace?” Dean asks. “Lock her up in a room maybe?”

There is a moment of loaded silence. “… I will admit that was perhaps… _hasty_ , but there were extenuating circumstances to that incident Dean. I am not in the habit of locking my loved ones up in towers I assure you.”

Dean lifts his head and looks up at Castiel in shock. He is frowning with a defensive pout to his lips. “Loved ones?” Dean asks.

Castiel’s eyes widen for a moment, like he’s surprised at his own words now they are parroted back at him, but then he nods slowly. “Yes. Loved ones.”

Dean swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and presses his brow back against Castiel’s shoulder, where he can’t see him squeeze his eyes shut tight. Fingers trail through his hair and then Castiel shifts so he can press a kiss to the crown of Dean’s head. Something has his heart beating rapidly and Dean’s not sure what is happening exactly, doesn’t dare give shape to it even in the privacy of his own thoughts. It seems dangerous, naive. Instead he reaches for one of Castiel’s hands and twists their fingers together, squeezes his palm. Castiel’s breath catches for a moment, and then he returns the pressure, clinging to Dean’s fingers. Strange relief washes over Dean and he feels his heart settle to a more sedate thrum behind his rib.

Mercifully, Castiel doesn’t say anything.

***

The camp comes alive before dawn and the racket rouses Dean from a deep, warm sleep. Castiel is half-awake too, sprawled across him simultaneously clingy and bony, huffing irritably at the noise. When Dean prods him and calls his name, he just grunts and burrows into the warm spot between his neck and shoulder and after a moment starts snoring there softly. Dean sighs. There’s grit in his eyes, he needs to piss and his mouth feels stale and tacky, but he lays still a little longer, lingering. He knows they need to get up and be on their separate ways – he can hear Castiel’s squires at the other end of the pavilion readying things for the day and packing what will not be needed over breakfast. Somewhere outside Benny and Victor are probably already loading up the horses that will take them in the opposite direction of Castiel and his army with luggage and supplies.

Dean puts off waking Cas for as long as he can, but eventually his bladder and the smells of breakfast win out and he extracts himself from the grumpy king’s clinging arms. Castiel immediately rolls over into the warm spot and lays there like the dead for a few minutes, but by the time Dean has washed up and pulled on his trousers and a fresh undershirt, he’s sitting up and looking around the bright silken room despondently.

“There’s hot water,” Dean tells him nodding towards the steaming ewer on the makeshift wash stand. “And breakfast in the front room.”

Castiel sighs and drags himself from the bedroll, bringing a particularly shaggy fur with him, (a bear Dean thinks), and wrapping it around his shoulders like a barbaric war cloak. With his hair sticking up on end and his fierce morning frown, he looks more like a wild heathen than Dean ever has. All he’s missing is a beard and a few braids. He scrubs his teeth and washes his face with much sighing, then wanders out into the front half of the pavilion dressed in only his night shirt and the bear skin.

Dean tries not to let his amusement show too obviously as Castiel sits down next to him yawning, scratching at his beard stubble and glaring at the bacon like it insulted his mother. The squires and cupbearers serving him seem well acquainted with Castiel’s morning moods and after pouring him his tea, they slip into the back room to start packing up the bedding with exaggerated care and quiet.

Dean eats a big breakfast, since he won’t have anyone waiting on him for a little while once they part ways and he doubts the supplies his men will gather for their ride back up the pass will be nearly so lavish. Castiel wakes up by degrees until he is sitting up straight and looking like his usual self, albeit it rumbled and dressed in his bedclothes.

After they eat and a servant shaves his cheeks smooth, Dean helps Castiel into his armor. The squires are occupied packing up anyway, so he doesn’t do it _just_ to have an excuse to stand close to Castiel and touch him, though that part is nice too. All the buckles and ties holding his plate together are a fairly good distraction from the gnawing, anxious pit in his stomach, but Castiel is dressed too soon. He returns the favor, quite unnecessarily, helping Dean done the gleaming mail he’d gifted him, the tooled leather armor over that and finally one of the fine Edenish surcoats he’d had made for him in his colors. He picks at the cloth, smoothing it over Dean’s shoulders, then licks his lips and opens his mouth like maybe he is going to say something, but one of his squires coughs to draw his attention. “Your grace? Princess Raphael wishes to speak with you.”

Dean squeezes his hand briefly, the only parts of him save his head not yet encased in steel. “I will speak to you before we ride,” he says and ducks out of the tent. He finds Benny, Victor, Ion and Ephraim just outside the king’s tent, ordering a few squires around and packing up their horses and two pack animals with supplies. Dean busies himself ensuring they are prepared for their journey, checking Impala is properly tended to and her saddle bags evenly balanced where they will not rub and irritate her, though his guards are perfectly capable of seeing to her themselves.

Castiel is kept busy in for some time, and it is not until the camp has been broken and the line starts to move out, that Dean gets to bid him farewell. There is no scene, no dramatic parting of ways for the benefit of Castiel’s lords and captains, and no tents still standing for a private one either. Castiel just crosses to where Dean and his guards wait with their horses and says: “Dean. Look for me by midsummer in Zion.”

And Dean nods and Castiel nods back and then apparently that is that, and Dean finds himself marveling at the fact that everyone in his life is so fucking _terrible_ at saying goodbye, as Castiel walks away. Ignoring what is proper for once, Dean jogs after him. Castiel turns and frowns back over his shoulder in confusion as he hears Dean behind him, which is handy because it means Dean can slide a hand straight into his hair and kiss him very easily.  Castiel lets the helm wedged under his arm fall to the turf with a rattling thud and hauls Dean into him, kissing him back with unexpected savagery.

Off to one side Dean hears Balthazar say something no doubt humiliating, but mercifully he doesn’t quite catch it.

Being crushed up against a man in plate armor still isn’t comfortable, even with layers of mail and leather to provide additional cushioning, but Castiel tastes like bitter northern tea and honey and for all Dean knows this is the last thing he’ll ever taste on his lips so he savors it.

Men die in war, he’s seen friends cut down many times during battle and he does not delude himself thinking Castiel immune to a lucky stroke just because he is a king, or because he is strong and good with a blade. Dean’s grandfather was all those things and he died on a battlefield in perdition, a stray arrow through the eye - if such an inglorious fate awaits Castiel, Dean does not wish their parting to have left him unsatisfied. A hollow farewell with all things left unsaid like his parting from his father.

So he smiles into Castiel’s kiss and then whispers in his ear, low and teasing. “If I do not spend midsummer being fucked cross-eyed by my husband I will ride after you myself.”

As expected, Castiel lets out a startled “ _Dean!”;_ prudish Edenish values scandalized even as he leans closer. Dean flashes him a grin before he kisses him again. When he pulls back Cas is flushed and out of breath. It is a much better leave-taking than the proper one Dean thinks. “I’ll be waiting Cas,” he promises by way of goodbye, and Castiel nods dumbly, staring at Dean in a way that makes him feel smug. Throwing him once last wink, Dean releases him and turns to walk back towards his guards and their horses.

“What, you’re not gracing us with you presence Prince Dean?” Balthazar sings out from behind, mocking as usual, but also perhaps a little curious.

Dean raises an arm and directs two raised fingers over his shoulder without turning and hears the idiot laugh. None of the other Edenish lords and knights nearby say anything, though they all seem equally confused.

Victor shakes his head as Dean approaches, but Benny is grinning in amusement and Ion and Ephraim look like they are trying not to. As he pulls himself up onto Impala’s broad back, he can’t help himself and he looks back. To his surprise Castiel is still standing right where Dean left him, helm in the dirt at his feet, staring. Their eyes catch and a smile breaks across Dean’s face before he can smother it. “Good hunting Cas!” he yells in West Saxon, rapping a fist over his heart in salute as he had the very first time he’d stood before him. Between them knights are mounting up and adjusting their saddles and armor, the hurried activity of an army about to march, and many turn at Dean’s yell to stare at their King’s outlandish Saxon Prince.

Castiel starts a little, as if he’d been lost in thought, then returns the gesture - gauntlet rapping against his breastplate - though he is too far for Dean to hear the percussion of it. He doesn’t shout back but his lips move as he says something. Dean thinks maybe ‘Goodbye Dean’. He lets himself stare for a moment, fixing it in his mind – the tall, fine, figure of Castiel in the early morning light of a clear spring day, gleaming silver in his armor, his hair a dark tousled mess from Dean’s fingers and his lips pink from his kisses. Dean raises a hand in a final farewell then turns Impala and kicks her into a gallop, his guards falling in behind.

They pass a few familiar faces as they make their way through the lines and back towards the pass – Lady Hester, Lord Uriel and from afar Sir Zachariah. Dean is fairly confident that the man won’t be returning from the war, that Castiel will ensure some stray eastern axe finds a home in the back of his skull, and he savors what he hopes will be his last sighting of the flinty-eyed bastard. Towards the rear they pass close by Lady Ariel and her garrison - rows of knights and archers already mounted and heading south. She waves and calls to Dean, so he reins up and waits as she peels off from her knights to approach. Dressed in her plate she looks very much like her mother had at the tourney months ago. With her visor down, Dean is not sure he would be able to tell them apart.

“Prince Dean!” she calls, sounding relieved. “I had hoped to catch you. I have a letter for Princess Anael. The king was kind enough to inform me you might be able to deliver it for me?”

Dean nods, though he is a little surprised. As far as he knows, Castiel did not tell anyone Dean would be turning back, not even Balthazar. As well as being one of his captains Ariel is his blood though, so perhaps Princess Raphael and her children were amongst a chosen few privy to the truth. Lady Hester had frowned in confusion when she’d seen Dean and his men ride past, but Lord Uriel had not seemed overly shocked, had just saluted politely in the Edenish fashion.

“Of course,” he says, nudging Impala a little closer and holding out a hand to accept the neatly folded parchment she pulls from a saddlebag.

She smiles as he takes it from her, but Dean can see easily that it does not reach her eyes. It occurs to him suddenly that capable as she is, deadly with a bow and from what he has seen in the yards - skilled with a blade - that she can only be a handful of years his senior. She is _nervous_ he realizes. She could be leading her garrison into her first real battle for all Dean knows, certainly her first _war_. He looks out across at her garrison as they ride past in ranks of gleaming armor. “Your men look eager for battle,” he tells her, letting admiration color his tone, and she straightens in her saddle at once, turning a little to look out over them, her expression sharpening into pride. “Disciplined,” Dean adds.

“Yes,” she agrees. “They have trained hard. We will cut a swathe through Perdition.”

Dean grins. “I wish I could be there to see it.”

Ariel shrugs a shoulder, or tries to, (in her armor it is hard to tell), and gives him a look. “As I would have liked to have seen you and Thegn Victor and Benedickt --" Her eyes dart to one side at the last, glancing at Benny in a way that has him squaring his shoulders and his cheeks turning pink above his whiskers. “But the treaty is more important than getting to see those Saxon spears and axes in action.”

“I’m sure King John and his ríden will give you ample demonstration,” Dean replies somewhat absently, observing the looks passing between his flustered thegn and Castiel’s cousin with curiosity and a sense of disbelief.

She smiles, her teeth white and sharp. “I look forward to it. Seeing Crowley and his eastern scum crushed between a Saxon shield wall and a thicket of Edenish lances will be something indeed.”

Dean glances back over her knights again longingly. He agrees wholeheartedly. For an insane moment he ponders following the baggage train and stalking Castiel and his army across Perdition. If he made it far enough, Castiel would _have_ to let him ride at his side. It is one thing for Dean and a few men to ride north unescorted so close to the border, it would be suicide more than a few days march in. Crowley’s spies would take note and have them cornered long before they made it to the pass. It is a childish plot, but it is tempting…

Ariel jars him from such introspection. “Farewell, Prince Dean,” she says, turning her horse. “Do not let Anael lock herself in her room and fret till midsummer!”

Dean nods and plasters a smile on his face again. “Of course not. Farewell!”

Benny raises a hand and Ariel _winks_ at him before she snaps her visor shut and rides off to catch up to her garrison. As one, Dean and Victor both turn to stare. Benny affects and air of innocent confusion, but even Ion and Ephraim regard him curiously.

“What?” he demands.

“ _Lady_ _Ariel_?” Dean asks dryly. “What did I tell you about fooling with Anael’s ladies?”

Benny sniffs and sits up straighter in the saddle. “Lady Ariel _isn’t_ one of the Princess’s ladies,” he points out. “And besides I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“He took longbow lessons over winter you know,” Victor tells Dean, smirking.

“Oh really?”

“Mhmm,” Victor agrees. “One on one tutelage from the champion of the royal paracleda archery contest herself. _Laaaaady_ Ariel.”

Benny’s face remains stubbornly stony, but his cheeks are still an incriminating ruddy pink. Dean sighs, but he’s glad for the distraction teasing him provides as they make their way back through the rest of the encampment and towards the pass. Men point and some wave or call out, the bright cloaks of Ion and Ephraim drawing attention as much as Dean’s lavish surcoat and Benny and Victor’s outlandish armor. Dean waves back vaguely, but doesn’t stop to speak to anyone. He wonders if perhaps they should have dressed in plainer garb, but at least no one dares to try and stop and question them since they are so easily recognizable. It takes longer than he expected to wind their way through the throngs of soldiers and then past the baggage carts and mules – there seem to be even more men than Dean realized - but finally they put the bored looking rearguard behind them and the way before them is clear.

The road is no longer overgrown – the passing of the Edenish army, thousands of horses and booted feet – has left it trampled bare and dusty. It makes the desolate country they ride through seem less abandoned than it had when they came south. They make good time, passing the flattened grass and scuffed out fires of the previous night’s camp long before sundown and continuing on deep into the foothills and up towards the spurs of the mountain before the light fails them. Camp is quiet, but it almost makes for a pleasant change after the noise of the host and winter spent cramped up in the overflowing keep.

Ion and Ephraim are both still a little standoffish and formal, but otherwise it is more or less like riding with a party of rídend back in Wessex. They see to their horses, raise the tent Castiel had insisted on for Dean - adamant that he should not sleep in the open - and then share a meal together around a small fire. It is cool but not overly so, and in the dark Perdition does not seem so eerie. The only sign that they are not camped in Wessex or Eden or some ordinary place is the silence. But the horses shifting in their hobbles and whickering softly to one another covers most of that.

After they have eaten Benny pulls out a wineskin to pass around and they spend a pleasant enough evening telling stories to make one another laugh. Benny’s Enochian is still terrible, but Ion and Ephraim both have a good grasp on West Saxon, (undoubtedly one of the reasons Castiel had chosen them to guard Dean in the first place). Once the wine has loosened their tongues a little the Edenish knights start telling stories almost as bawdy as Benny and Victor. Dean has little to contribute, he has no amusing stories about being chased by the irate fathers of lonely shepherd boys or milkmaids, but he laughs a lot.

He’s in good spirits when he crawls into his tent, smiling and humming to himself, his head nicely fuzzed from just the right amount of good northern wine. The tent is tiny - scant room for more save his bedroll and gear - but Dean still feels slightly ridiculous to be sleeping under canvas while the others sleep under the stars around the campfire. And he doubts it will be much warmer or more comfortable, whatever Castiel may have thought, only increase his chances of tripping over something if he has to get up and relieve himself in the night. If Castiel were around, Dean would probably tease him about it. As it is he just rolls his eyes and mutters to himself as he gets ready for sleep.

It is only once he is tucked up warm in his bedroll that something starts to niggle at him. It has been months since he slept alone and he twists and turns under his furs, unable to relax. It seems he has become accustomed to the warmth of Castiel at his back or his side. The ground feels harder and the night cooler all of a sudden. His bedding – a thick fur and a blanket – doesn’t smell right. There is no sweet hint of the orris root Castiel’s servants tuck in with his linens to keep them fresh, and nothing, of course, of Castiel himself. It is ridiculous, but his absence is suddenly glaring and undeniable and it has Dean swallowing around a lump in his throat. Which makes him feel foolish, since he had seen Castiel just that morning. He cannot possibly miss him after less than a day. Luckily the ride has tired him and he falls into sleep easily enough despite his discomfort.

He’s vaguely aware of the others talking quietly in the night of the shuffling of footsteps as they change watch and the horses whickering and snorting softly to one another, but it is past dawn before he really awakens. Benny is snoring somewhere to his left, loud enough that the cloth of the tent makes no difference, and he can hear Ion and Victor arguing over the ‘proper’ consistency of oats off to his right. He rolls over and burrows into his bedroll for a little longer, thinking to sleep until there is breakfast to eat, (even if it is the runny gruel Victor calls porridge), but now that he’s awake, he’s aware of Castiel’s absence all over again, of how cold and alone he is in the little tent by himself, and it weighs heavily on him. There is no pleasure in laying abed dozing without someone warm beside him.

Giving up on sleep, he rises, pulls on his cloak to ward off the early morning chill, toes on his boots and then stumbles out of tent. The great lump that is Benny’s ass huddled under his blankets is too tempting, and he kicks him as he passes to relieve himself a little ways from the camp. His thegn jerks awake with a loud snort and reaches for his blade, but Dean is already well past him and he rounds instead on Ephraim, sleeping innocently next to him, and thumps him. The sounds of them arguing and Ion and Victor laughing follow Dean as he ducks behind an outcropping of stone.

Victor wins out and the oats are thin, but Dean’s serve is nice and hot and there is cured ham and cheese as well. Breaking up their little camp is the work of minutes and they are on their way before the full light of day is upon them. The eerie stillness of Perdition fades away around them and by the time the sun reaches its zenith, they are winding up the pass proper, making their way up and through the first peaks of the range. The air is clear once more, no lingering hint of ash, and birds call out from the trees.

Despite the repairs made over winter and on the way down the pass, the mountain road is still muddy and torn up from thousands of hooves and boots, and though they travel much quicker than they did on the ride over, they still camp twice before they make it back to Lord Joshua’s Keep.

Dean sleeps no better on the second or third night than he did on the first. It is difficult to relax and once he does sleep, he finds himself jerking half-awake in the night, reaching for someone who is not there. He is actually glad of the silly tent, since it means his men don’t see him groping for Castiel’s shade at his side or murmuring his name half-asleep. Pathetically, he wonders if Castiel is tossing and turning amidst his pillows and furs somewhere far south.

The Keep when they reach it is very different - eerily quiet with the barracks emptied. Things lie abandoned or forgotten here and there and they draw Dean’s eye. A vambrace left to rust out in the yard, a boot kicked off under a table in the high hall and a kerchief stitched with a bright border, a keepsake such as a farmer’s wife might have made, fallen from a pocket and trampled into the mud of the courtyard.

It makes Dean uneasy. Combined with the silence of the emptied halls, it gives the place the air of the tomb.

Lord Joshua does not appear surprised to see them when they ride in, clearly forewarned by Castiel, and even if the place is oddly foreboding, he welcomes them warmly and they spend a night in soft beds if not in perfect comfort. He has Dean’s thegn and his Edenish guards sit at the high table with them for dinner and they share a pleasant meal despite the strange atmosphere of the near deserted hall. The entirety of Lord Joshua’s household, along with his servants and retainers, barely fill a third of the cavernous space. It seems like a different castle entirely. Dean cannot quite reconcile the gloomy shadowed hall they eat in with the noisy place filled with knights and lords scarce a week past.

He spends the night back in the tower room, in the bed he had shared with Castiel. It is exactly as it had been when they left. There are a few half-written abandoned letters in Castiel’s neat Enochian script sitting on the writing desk and there is a bar of the soft, lemon-scented soap he favors sitting on the washstand. When Dean climbs into the suddenly enormous bed, he finds the pillows retain a lingering trace of Castiel’s scent – that which had been missing from his bedroll – but even though he had missed it, somehow it just makes everything worse. Makes that blossoming ache of loneliness in his chest even harder to ignore. Sleep is long in coming and for a blurry moment when he first wakes - hard and aching from a half-forgotten dream with Castiel’s name on his lips - he is _certain_ he is lying beside him and he reaches for him.

Despite Lord Joshua’s warm smiles and kind eyes, Dean is glad to put the place behind him at first light.

The journey to Zion is nothing like the outward one. The mornings still have the sharp chill of early spring, but it is clear and warm for the most part - good weather for riding – and Dean is fit and easy in the saddle. The fields and forests the road cuts through are green with new bud and it is hard to believe that they are following the same route as that they took a few months earlier, it all looks so different. The little tent and Dean’s bedroll still feel strange without Castiel to fill help them, but Dean thinks once he is back in his room in Zion, in the bed he only ever slept in alone, that confusing ache will fade. As it is he dreams of Castiel though, or just finds himself lying awake thinking of him, wishing he was near so Dean could kiss him and put his hands upon him.

Without men on foot or frosts or illness to slow them, they are within view of the city in a week.

Zion is likewise transformed by the change of season. The fields at her walls are vibrant greens and yellows and the forests and gardens bright with spring flowers and fresh growth. With the sun out and shining brightly, even the buildings seem scrubbed clean, whiter than Dean remembers. Even from afar the silver-topped towers and halls glint in the sun almost blindingly. It seems to have grown grander since the last time Dean beheld it.

They are only half an hour’s ride or so from the gates when a troupe of Edenish knights – Royal guards in bright cloaks – appear on the road ahead of them. Dean isn’t all that shocked to catch Anael’s bright hair in amidst them, to hear an exuberant greeting called out when she is still far too distant to be heard properly. He raises a hand and calls back anyway.

Watching her gallop side-saddle is just as alarming as he recalls, but she is as blasé about it as ever, bouncing in the saddle carelessly. When she reins in before him, Dean’s smile is partly simple relief that she hasn’t fallen from her horse and cracked her skull. She is more finely dressed than usual - her dress elaborately embroidered and a circlet set with stones pined into her hair. However her ride has left her cheeks flushed and her hair is falling out of its complicated braid. Her cloak is pined with the golden brooch he gave her.

“Dean!” she says, breathless and pleased. She has already called his name a dozen times, but repeats it again now that they are actually before one another.

Dean’s smile widens into a grin. “Anael,” he returns with a nod. “It is good to see you.” He had not realized how he had missed her company.

She fidgets in her saddle for a moment and then nudges her mare closer, close enough so she can awkwardly throw herself half off her horse and pull Dean into a lopsided hug. Dean grabs at her, convinced she will fall, and one of her guards makes an abortive reach after her, eyes wide under his visor, but she remains surprisingly steady despite appearances. She laughs a little, warm and soft in Dean’s arms and he presses a fond kiss to a likely spot amid her unraveling hair. Her arms squeeze him tightly for a moment, almost crushing the breath out of him regardless of his armor, before she releases him and straightens.

“I’m so glad you are back!” she gushes, clutching at one of his hands still. “I thought for sure you would ride south with Castiel and I would be left here on my own.” Her eyes dart back and forth over him as she gives him an eager once over. “Are you well?” she asks without pausing for breath. “There was an awful rumor you’d _died_ on the road south! It was weeks before news arrived from Castiel saying you’d recovered.”

“A fever,” Dean explains dismissively.

“Yes Castiel said,” she agrees. “He said it was very bad however - though you look very well now?” she continues, tone turning speculative. “Better than when you rode out in fact. When I saw you last you looked as though a stiff breeze might blow you away.”

Dean hums and nudges Impala back into a walk. Anael turns her mare and falls in beside them. “Well, there wasn’t much to do at Lord Joshua’s castle except spar and eat,” he tells her as they continue on towards the city gates, their guards forming up around them.

Anael gives him a slow look out of the side of her eyes that she probably thinks very subtle. “I am sure you and Castiel found other ways to keep yourselves entertained.”

Behind them Benny snorts and mutters something under his breath that has Victor and Ion tittering. Dean flashes them a glare over his shoulder. From the smirks on their faces and the way Ephraim is blushing and avoiding eye contact, he assumes it was some crude comment regarding he and Castiel’s renewed enthusiasm for the marriage bed.

Thankfully Anael is oblivious and the rest of the short ride into Zion is filled with less embarrassing conversation as they exchange news with no questions about heirs or references to things he and Castiel might have done to keep _busy_ over winter. Anael has been receiving fairly regular word from Castiel, but she still asks for detailed accountings of her cousins and Sir Balthazar and few other knights and ladies she counts as friends. Dean tells her all he can, though he is probably not the best source of news owing to the complicated and rather confined nature of his winter. She hedges around that subject, clearly knowing something of it from her brother’s letters, but mercifully refrains from questioning him in earshot of their guards.

The streets are busy, thronged with carts, horses and peasants on foot, but it is plain even at a glance that many are missing. There are no men around, only young boys and old grey-beards. The women of Zion seem to be coping well enough in their absence though - everything looks much the same as it did the last time Dean rode through the streets. Shops are open and markets bustle. For the most part they pass by unnoticed, lost in the throng, but there is still a fair amount of waving and curtseying, mostly in Anael’s direction. She smiles and nods back serenely.

When they arrive at the palace Dean digs Ariel and Castiel’s letters out of his saddlebags before the servants can whisk his gear away. Anael clutches at both eagerly, but Dean can see from the way she pinches Castiel’s between her thumb and forefinger and tests the weight of it in her hand - things he has done with letters from Sam over the years – that it is word from her brother she is most grateful for.

Dean is eager to retire and wash the dirt of the road off, but he glances at the parchment in her hand. “Has there been any word for me from Wessex?” he asks, thinking of Sam.

Anael squints and tilts her head a little to one side at the question and the gesture makes her look so very much like her brother for a moment that Dean’s chest tightens uncomfortably.  “Yes I think there was actually,” she tells him. “A letter from your brother? Or perhaps it was your uncle? Just a week or two past. It will be in your room at any rate. There was no point sending it on.”

Dean takes his leave of her hurriedly, just as eager for word from his brother as she is from hers.

***

His room has been aired and a fire burns behind the grate. It has been months since he stood within it, and yet it seems as if he has only been gone a day or two. Food has been laid out on the side table - wine and pastries and fruit – a repast similar to that which had awaited him the very first time he had set foot in the place. Just as he did then, Benny heads straight for the table and falls on the delicate little Edenish pastries with relish. Ion purses his lips and hisses something under his breath, no doubt a reminder that they should be guarding their Prince’s _door_ not eating his _food_ , but Benny just snorts and reaches for the wine.

Dean for his part yanks off his gloves and crosses to the writing desk, ignoring the food and his bickering guards for the moment. There are two letters waiting for him, neatly lined up in the center of the desk. The first is quite old and from his uncle - a brief coded message saying that things go well in Wessex and that he and his men ride out. It is understandably vague, but the few lines about Jo and Lady Ellen and his former thegn Garth and Kevin, and the fact that Lord Singer bothered to write to him at all, make Dean smile as he scans over the scrawled runes. 

It is the second that has his breath catching in anticipation though. The moment he picks it up he recognizes the neat hand. It is indeed from Sam, except it is… strange. For starters it is a single sheet of parchment folded, sealed with wax, and tied with string - whereas Sam usually sends several sheets curled into a scroll and carefully sealed in wax paper to protect them from damp on their journey to Dean. He has always been a very particular letter writer.

When he flattens it out to read, Dean’s misgivings are not reassured. It is penned in his brother’s hand, neat orderly lines of futhorc runes, but the words themselves are oddly stilted, far more formal than usual. It is actually addressed to him by full rank and title instead of ‘Dean’. His smile fades into a frown as he reads it over.

The Campbells have been most welcoming. Sam is enjoying the seaside and Boney likes to play in the surf --

 _“Boney?”_ Dean mutters aloud to himself before realizing it must be a reference to Sam’s dog Bones. He can’t recall his brother ever calling the hound by the pet name before.

\-- Campbellfryd held an excellent melee for mondrachnicht and since most of the men had ridden to war with Lord Campbell, Sam and other younger men were able to enter. Sam did not win but he made it to the last half dozen. Their grandfather and cousins have ridden to war, but Lady Gwen remains and is good company. The Yule feast was very grand and Sam was chosen to sacrifice a young oxen in Woden’s honor in Lord Campbell’s place.

Dean’s frown gets much deeper. Sam _hates_ sacrifice. He always winces and turns his head when they witness one in the temple. He much prefers offering the gods wine and food from his own plate. He gets as attached to sheep and cows as he does to dogs and horses. Oh he’ll eat them happily enough, but is oddly squeamish about hunting or butchering his own meat. The thought of him not only willing participating in a sacrifice, but considering it the highlight of the Yule festival, makes no sense. Unless Sam has changed much since Dean saw him last, which… admittedly was long ago now.

The rest of the letter is about Sam’s lessons, how his horse threw a shoe, and that he and Lady Gwen have been ruling Lord Capmbell’s estate in his absence and neither of them particularly like dealing with the bickering farmers and petty gentry. He makes no mention of Eden, Castiel or Dean’s marriage, nor even asks after him. Dean pulls out the letter he had from Sam before he rode south, the one his father gave him before he left for Wessex. The parchment has gone soft with how often it has been folded and refolded so Dean would read it. He carefully flattens it out next to the new one and reads over it even though he could recite it more or less verbatim.

It is definitely Sam’s hand on both, his neat little runes, but the tone is so different Dean doesn’t know quite what to make of it. It’s as if Sam is angry at him or sulking. Or perhaps…

He studies the scroll intensely, looking for any sign of a hidden message or code within Sam’s stilted formality. When he finds nothing he snatches it up and crosses the room to crouch over the fire. Benny and Ion both watch curiously. Dean holds it over the flames, truly expecting some other message, his _real_ letter from Sam, to appear to him secretly scrawled on top of the empty words penned in ink, but nothing happens.

Eventually the parchment starts to smoke and he nearly burns his fingertips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I split this in chapter in two because it ended up super long - next part should be up in the next few hours.


	17. Chapter 17

Benny and Ion stand over Dean’s door that evening, Victor’s off with his Edenish wife and Ephraim most likely losing at dice somewhere in the halls below. Dean’s sleep is uneasy. It is not just thoughts of Castiel and war that plague him now. He dreams of Sam. The brother in his dreams is younger than the last time Dean had seen him, about the height he’d been when John had first sent Dean away to Lord Robert - skinny and awkward with brown hair curling over his ears. He pulls at Dean’s hand, dragging him through the corridors of the Castle in Winchester and the rooms they’d lived in as children. The tower they’d had their lessons in, the rooms they’d slept in, their father’s apartments, the courtyard they’d learned to fight with wooden swords – Sam leads him through the maze of grey stone at a panicked run, throwing wide-eyed looks over his shoulder and calling his name. Dean follows, but wherever his brother is trying to lead him, whatever he’s trying to show him, they never reach it. They are standing in the middle of their mother’s dusty solar - the rooms their father had locked up after she died - and Sam is pointing and calling Dean’s name and then… nothing.

When Dean awakens the next morning he’s confused and unsettled by his dreams, and the way Missouri is banging plates on the side table doesn’t improve his mood. He huffs into his pillow and mutters to himself, wondering how it was he missed the cranky old woman when he was in the south. The food she is laying out _does_ smell good though and he contemplates getting up. When she starts throwing back the shutters on the windows with a racket that _must_ be intentional, he deigns to rise - but even then he gets no peace.

He makes it to the garderobe to relieve himself and splash water on his face, but the moment he’s back in the bedchamber she falls upon him, prodding and poking, squeezing his arms and his hips and letting out humming noises that are both approving and mildly insulting. Dean hunches away from her in his nightshirt, feeling exposed and something like a cow being inspected at market. The little smirk on her face doesn’t relax him any.

“Heard you nearly died little Saxon,” she accuses in her terrible Enochian with her customary lack of tact. “But you looking strong.”

Dean glares at her and rubs at his arm where her bony fingers have left a little ache. “It was a chill that went bad. I’m fine.”

She hums suspiciously, pursing her lips. “Not what I hear,” she says. “Poison or an arrow they were saying.”

“It was a blood fever,” Dean tells her. “An accident. Not poison.”

She’s quiet for a moment and her expression darkens, all trace of teasing good humor drying up. “I _told_ King I needed to come look after you,” she mutters. “He always too busy with his lords to listen.” She curses and slips into what sounds like very colorful Latin.

Dean leaves her too it, sitting down and loading a breakfast plate. He’s halfway through a generous serve of fried ham when she starts speaks Enochian again and directing the words at him. “You looking much better,” she says, giving him a very thorough once over. “King get a babe in you yet?”

Dean chokes a little on his ham and has to gulp at too-hot tea to get it down. _“No,”_ he manages hoarsely.

Missouri raises an eyebrow and smirks slyly at him. “He try a lot though _hmm?”_ She emphasizes her words with a crude swivel of her hips that is truly disturbing to see performed by a woman of her age.

“Missouri!” Dean admonishes, but she just smiles wider.

“No matter Prince Dean. When King Castiel comes back to the palace, I give you special tea.” She pats his head and rubs his hair a little like he’s a favored dog. “You have a babe no time.”

“Your tea didn’t do much last time.” Dean mutters, running a hand over his hair to flatten the mess she’s made of it and thinking of the awful ashy tea she kept plying him with in the fall. It’s not something he wants back on his breakfast table. The stuff currently in his cup is infinitely preferable.

“That not _babe_ tea,” she tells him sounding offended. “That tea to keep you strong since he so rough with you.”

Dean stares at her in shock. Missouri seems to take that an invitation to continue.

“You very nice boy Prince,” she says, patting at his cheek instead of his hair this time. “Tall. Good face. Pretty eyes. King like you and visit too much.” She purses her lips and pours more tea into his cup. “Not my place to tell king how to treat his prince,” she mutters. “But my place to make sure he eat his breakfast.”

Dean looks down at his plate for a moment as a sudden wave of affection for the grumpy old woman warms his insides. When he looks up she has stepped away a little and is frowning down at the crock of honey sitting near the bread. Dean stands and pulls her into a sudden hug. She lets out a little shriek and goes all stiff and elbowy for a moment, but then turns a little and squeezes his arm.

“Thank you,” he tells her.

She snorts, like she’s above his gratitude and doesn’t understand what the all the fuss is about, but when Dean releases her and sits back down to his breakfast, he catches the way she looks at him out of the corner of her eyes. He smiles against the rim of his cup as he sips at his tea. It’s plain northern stuff - sweet and bitter - but with a sweet fragrance, something almost flowery, that lingers on his tongue and makes him think she’s picked it for him especial, perhaps made it herself. “This is very good tea,” he tells her.

***

Dean sleeps well the first few days he’s back in the palace. His bed is soft and warm and he is used to sleeping in it alone, so he doesn’t notice Castiel’s absence so much when he crawls under the covers to sleep. But as the days pass, as it stretches out into a weeks instead of days since he bade Castiel farewell, an itch builds under his skin. He finds himself tossing and turning at night, dreaming and thinking on Castiel in a way that is nor concerned or worried, but something rather more base.

In the quiet of the night, alone in the big carven bed, the room dark save the flickering orange glow of the banked fire, it is Castiel’s kisses and the feel of his hands on his body that Dean has trouble pushing from his head, not thoughts of war or politics. In his mind’s eye he relives the feel of Castiel’s mouth and his hands, his body warm atop Dean’s, his kisses wet and rough, and grows heavy and hard between his thighs. At first he tries to push those thoughts away, to go to sleep, but an aching erection is a difficult thing to ignore. Especially when alone in his bed where no one will see or overhear him. And once he starts touching himself, he can’t stop. Every night he ends up bringing himself off to the thought of Castiel and what he might do to Dean if he was lying beside him instead of half a kingdom away.

Afterwards he feels relaxed, but embarrassed, and he always tries to clean up the evidence so there’s no stain on the bedsheets for the servants to titter over come morning. But then he rediscovers the oil.

It is late and Dean has shucked his nightshirt to lazily hump his fist, the night air cool on his skin but the prickle of it a persistent reminder of his complete nakedness, of the picture he would make if anyone _(Castiel)_ were watching. He rolls his hips, rocking into the tight circle of his curled fingers and pretends he has Castiel on his belly, that he’s rutting into that tight space between his thighs. He’s mouthing at his pillow in lieu of Castiel’s skin when he spies the bottle sitting on the little table just to his right.

He ignores it for a minute – his hand feels good and he’s not far off finishing – but once he has noticed it, it’s impossible for him to ignore and in short order he is stripping his cock with a warm, greasy fist. It feels much better than a palm sticky with sweat and spit, feels almost as good as when Castiel touches him, and with his eyes squeezed shut it’s easy to imagine that he is. Licking his lips, Dean reaches down and cups his balls with his free hand, gently squeezing and tugging on them, thinking on the way Castiel stares when he touches Dean like this, how his pupils blow wide and black and his cheeks flush with arousal and excitement. His fingers slide over the soft skin of his sac easily. He’d been a little over eager with the oil and he’s wet and slick, droplets of the fragrant stuff caught in his pubic hair and sliding down between his thighs to tease at his crack.

It occurs to him then that the oil could be put to another use - that he could try and touch himself inside the way Castiel does and just the thought, the memory of that warm ache and sharp pleasure has him stifling a moan and his dick pulsing excitedly. It takes a little maneuvering – he ends up on his side – but just the brush of a fingertip against his sensitive opening has him shivering and gasping. Well worth the effort.

It’s distracting, every touch there feeling sharper and new in comparison to his hand on his cock, and Dean leaves off stroking himself for a minute and instead focuses on pressing his middle finger slowly inside.

It’s _tight_.

His finger seem to sink in almost to the first knuckle before it slips past the thick band of muscles guarding his opening and inside him properly. The stretch and soft ache are a familiar tease, but it’s mildly shocking how warm and _soft_ he feels in there, softer than any other part of him, softer even than the inside of his cheeks pillowy against his tongue. For a few minutes he just idly strokes himself, dipping his finger in and out slowly, cataloguing how it feels to be doing the touching rather than being touched, and sees how far he can reach before his wrist complains.

He’s not really even looking for it when he finds that place inside. One moment he’s slumped on the bed lazily fingering himself, the next he’s gasping as shivery heat twitches up his cock and has precome beading at the tip. It’s not quite the same as when Castiel touches him, it’s awkward for one, he has to reach back and sink his finger in as far as it will go just to reach that wonderful spot inside, but it still feels amazing. He does it again, and again, alternating the pressure and speed, the way he’s touching himself, until he finds a rhythm that has him rolling onto his stomach and lifting his hips in a vain effort to get his finger deeper, harder. He humps against the mattress, vaguely aware that he’s smearing the sheets with his oily dick and that Missouri and the servants will surely notice the stain in the morning, but far too gone to care.

The second finger burns a little, but the stretch feels good, like an itch scratched, and he’s able to rub against that magical spot harder, with more pressure. His eyes slip shut and it’s easy to pretend that Castiel’s behind him, on top of him, pressing those long clever fingers of his inside or – he groans at the thought – fucking him. Not his fingers but Castiel himself, that thick cock that Dean’s tasted, felt the shape of hot and heavy against his tongue, his body opening up for that with nothing more than a sweet hot ache.

Just thinking on it has him slamming his fingers deep and hard and moaning into the pillows, Castiel’s name choked and tangled on his lips. Beneath him his dick throbs and dribbles into the sheets. His neck prickles, sweat chilling in the night air and he can almost feel Castiel’s breath there, the sting and scrape of teeth on his skin. How many times has Castiel fucked him right here, in this bed? Maybe it’s wrong of him to think on that now, but he can’t deny that he wants to feel it again, not the pain, but just, _Cas_. Wants to break apart like this with Castiel right there with him, inside him. _Oh gods_ he wants it.

He’s not sure how long he carries on that way, thoughts delirious and thick with Castiel, just grinding his dick into the mattress and franticly fucking his own hand, but the end when it comes is shattering, has him gasping and chanting Castiel’s name in a breathless prayer. His dick spurts thickly into the sheets and his ass clamps down around his fingers like a vice.

Dean collapses in a shaky mess and just lays there in a daze, trying to catch his breath. It’s only when he slowly eases his fingers out of his ass that he realizes he had three fingers buried inside himself. They are greasy with oil and he lazily wipes them off on the sheets. They are a mess anyway – damp with sweat and smeared with oil and come, but he can’t find it in himself to care. His body feels boneless and sated, but as the fuzz of his pleasure fades, he feels the emptiness of his bed all the more keenly.

Even with his eyes shut he can’t maintain the illusion of Castiel beside him. Because if he was in Dean’s bed, he would be kissing him right now. He would have pulled Dean into his arms, all soft and loose and uncaring of mess and pressed his mouth to his. Instead of trading languid kisses until sleep claims him, Dean falls asleep with his arms wrapped around a pillow.

***

He had thought being stuck waiting out the war with Anael would make time drag, but it doesn’t. The days quickly grow warmer as spring unfolds around them and Dean discovers that when he’s not stuck in his room all day, the palace and Zion around provide much diversion. He spars with Benny and Victor in the practice yards near the stables, rides with Anael when she is in the mood - both around the countryside and through the city itself - loses several bits of goldwork and gains fistfuls of silver crowns in the Edenish dice games Ion and Ephraim play and the cards Anael the court favor, and in general tries to keep himself distracted from how useless he feels stuck so far from the war his father and husband are fighting. From the purpose he has been raised to fulfill. And been good at. And enjoyed.

Anael, who is ruling in her brother’s stead until he returns, gives him things to do. Partly he thinks just to keep him occupied and partly because she seems to like having him to commiserate with when stuck listening to lords and ladies complaining about war levies and taxes or how their neighbors are cheating them.

Back at Court his Enochian continues improving until Anael announces him fluent and immediately starts trying to teach him Latin. Missouri seems delighted by the turn of events and promptly stops even _trying_ to speak Enochian with him, choosing instead to communicate via charade when Dean’s Latin falls short.  All in all his days pass quite pleasantly - sometimes he will go hours without thinking of the war or Castiel or his family. It is at night that he is troubled.

Not only does he physically _miss_ Castiel – his warm presence beside him as he sleeps, his touch and his kisses – but at night there is nothing to keep his thoughts occupied and he lies abed worrying, unable to stop his mind from coming up with horrible scenarios featuring his father, his uncle, Castiel, or friends like Kevin and Garth and even more distant acquaintances like Lady Ariel and Sir Balthazar. Crowley’s men are ruthless and Dean suspects that they will only grow even more dangerous the more desperate they get. Not all of them will return, and he tortures himself thinking who will count amongst the dead.

But that is not the worst of it. Some nights he dreams of Castiel and wakes up hard and aching, the memory of his body pressed against Dean’s heady and thick in his thoughts, but other times he dreams of Castiel in ways that have him jerking awake, gasping and shivering with a cold sweat. In the dark it takes a moment for him to realize what is wrong and his ass clenches uncomfortably, as if he should be raw and tender there. Being back in the room, in the bed their marriage was consummated in, awakens memories of his husband that are not pleasant. Thoughts easier forgotten in the tower room in Lord Joshua’s keep.

He hates those dreams, not only because they are painful, ugly things, but because they make him _angry_. It is hard to be angry at someone you miss, someone you fear for. It leaves him unsettled and unable to rest. On those nights he ends up staring out the tall windows of his bedchamber and down at the city spread below, and tries to think of anything else save Castiel.

Regardless of how he spends his nights, every morning he treks out to the crumbling old shrine in the palace gardens and makes offerings. Wine and honey from his breakfast table poured onto the altar sat in in the grassy clearing amidst the trees. Missouri tsks in disapproval at the waste but still brings extra. The runes carved into the altar are chipped and defaced, grown over with dark moss, and Dean cannot see which god the grove it stands in is sacred to,  but he prays to every god he can think of just the same. Prays for them to lend their aid to Castiel, his father and his uncle, give them the strength to defeat Crowley and begs them to protect them in his place.

It does not seem to be enough however.

***

Dean has been in Zion only six weeks when rumors start to spread that the war goes badly. There has been no official word, Anael keeps him informed of such things, so there is no basis for them, but Dean gets a panicky chill in his stomach every time he overhears such gossip or speculation. Not only does it fuel his fears for Castiel and his kin, but the aftermath of a defeat would be so catastrophic it does not bear thinking of. Dean knows from Castiel’s planning and strategizing that the armies he raised were vast. There are few left as backup. If the men in the south are overrun and defeated, there are not enough able-bodied men and women left in Eden to defend the borders. If Crowley somehow defeats Castiel and King John, he could march north and take the entire country. Wessex would still perhaps pose a threat, every saxon owns a seax and knows how to use it and even if only old women and children remained, they would put up a fight. But the Edenish common folk are far more peaceful.

Dean tries to keep such fears to himself however. The rumors worry Anael enough as it is. When Dean can see she is thinking on them, he reminds her of how well prepared Castiel and his father were and how greatly they outnumber Crowley’s horde. Perhaps Crowley’s cleverness will see the conflict drag out a little, but Dean cannot see any way he could possibly win.

Anael takes comfort in his words and they bolster one another in spite of the rumors.

But then word finally comes from the south.

It’s the middle of the night when Dean is roused from his sleep. Ion and Victor wake him, several other royal guards loitering behind them.

“Aetheling,” Victor says. “You have been summoned by the Princess. Riders have come from the front.”

Dean needs no further encouragement, he throws back the covers and scrambles to his feet. He doesn’t bother with shoes, just pulls a cloak on over his night shirt to ward of the midnight chill.  He doubts Anael will care that he is not properly dressed. Her guards fall in around him as they lead the way to her apartments. There are four and Dean wonders that she sent so many.

There is commotion in the halls - lords and ladies in various states of dress to and froing and gossiping in a way that makes Dean nervous. There is a low hum of urgency in the air that makes Dean think the news Anael has received is not good. That and the way he is stared at with far more suspicion and hostility than he has ever encountered before. The corridors leading to Anael’s apartments are thronged with people and the guards have to bodily make room so Dean can pass.

Dean picks up a few hissed remarks _traitor, saxon scum_ and _witch_ before he is being escorted into Anael’s solar. It’s a room he’s been in many times, in fact only hours earlier he’d been sitting at the spindly little table in one corner playing a card game with Anael, Lady Muriel and old Sir Jophiel. There are a few empty cups on the side table from the brandy they had been drinking. The difference a few hours have made is astonishing.

Anael is sat in a chair off to one side, a silken mantle thrown over her nightdress and her hair braided for bed. Arrayed around her are several dirty, travel stained figures. Sir Balthazar is sat to her left, his head bandaged so only one eye is visible, Lady Ariel stands nearby, frowning, her tunic torn and dirty but she herself apparently unharmed save a fading mark to her face, and next to her, on Anael’s right, is Sir Zachariah. Sadly he appears unharmed. He sneers openly at Dean as he approaches Anael. “And here he is,” he drawls with undisguised venom as everyone’s eyes settle upon Dean.

Dean ignores him and looks to Anael. Her eyes are red. “Anael?”

She sighs heavily but only meets his eyes for a second before glancing away again. The room is silent for a moment that stretches out long and strange. The sounds of the crowds in the hallways travels muted through the thick stone walls. The anger and fear in the air is thick and catches at Dean’s throat. “What has happened?” he asks, addressing Balthazar and Ariel since Anael won’t look at him. He can think of no good reason for them to have returned from the front in such a manner and panic wells within him.

Balthazar shifts in his seat and adjusts his bandage. Ariel just looks at Dean, her face eerily cool and expressionless.

Anael breaks the silence. “Tell him what you told me,” she orders them.

Zachariah’s head jerks around to stare at her wide-eyed. “Your highness! Is that wise? We don’t know what his role in all this--"

Anael waves a hand to silence him. “ _Balthazar._ Tell the prince what you told me.”

“Very well your highness,” he replies before fixing is attention on Dean in a way that almost makes him want to take a step back, reach for the sword that isn’t hanging at his hip. “We were ambushed. We took position in preparation for our joint attack upon Crowley’s capital, but instead of finding our West Saxon _comrades in arms_ …” He sneers at Dean. “An army of cursed men laid in wait for us. They were well prepared. Our knights were herded into pits and trenches lined with spikes, our archers cut down in a rain of poisoned arrows from the hills and then when all was in disarray and panic, the black-eyed bastards came and tore into those of us that were left.”

Dean stares, not quite believing what he’s hearing.

“Princess Raphael took charge and called the retreat, but it was already too late. We were laid to waste. Lord Uriel, Lady Hester, Lady Rachel and entire garrisons cut down.” He pauses, and rubs at his good eye. “And the king taken prisoner.”

The chill of dread that has been growing in Dean’s belly spikes up his spine. “Crowley has Castiel?” he demands.

Balthazar nods. “We can only pray he took some fatal wound in the melee and is mercifully dead.” Anael makes a noise and Balthazar’s expression softens. “Forgive me Princess.”

“And there has been no word from King John?” Dean asks. “No explanation?”

Balthazar’s expression darkens again. “We had riders from him _two days_ before we walked into that killing field, and your father assured Castiel that all was well and in readiness.”

“And you are certain these words came from my father? Not spies or traitors?”

“Oh they came from _traitors_ there is no doubt,” Zachariah says.

“It is possible,” Ariel says, finally breaking her silence. “The alliance was no secret, Crowley could have planted spies to intercept our riders. Perhaps he laid a similar trap for the Saxons. We cannot know.”

“But that must have been his entire army Ariel,” Balthazar tells her wearily. “He has not the numbers to split them and ambush us both.”

Ariel shrugs. “Then perhaps he merely got King John out of the way so he could not come to our aid.”

“My father would not have willingly left you to an ambush,” Dean agrees. “He _hates_ Crowley. This treaty, the chance to destroy Perdition once and for all, it is all he has dreamed of for decades.”

Zachariah snorts. “You would say that.”

Dean purses his lips and manages to keep his voice even if not exactly calm. “ _Nothing_ Crowley could offer my father would tempt him to side with him even for an instant. His demons had my mother burned alive you may recall? This is Crowley’s treachery, not my father’s.”

Balthazar sighs. “You could well be speaking the truth, I certainly see no logic or reason for King John to betray us in this way, but the fact remains our armies are scattered, our King is in chains, or worse, and where were our Saxon allies in our time of need?”

“Probably exactly where Crowley wanted them,” Dean replies. “Awaiting you at some new rendezvous, or delayed by some means, it would not difficult to arrange such a thing.”

“We retreated north, back to the pass,” Ariel interrupts. “Mother mustered what remained of the host and holds the pass with them. She sent out riders, hoping to find King John so he might come to our aid, but there is no sign of them within a week’s ride. We must assume the treaty is broken and we alone must defend our borders from Crowley.”

“God knows what sort of dregs will end up marching south,” Balthazar mutters.

“You’ve come for reinforcements,” Dean realizes. “Crowley means to invade?”

Ariel nods. “If he makes it past our forces, he will be able to march straight on Zion. Eden will fall once and for all.”

“And perhaps _that_ has been your father’s goal all along _Aetheling Dean,”_ Zachariah hisses.

Dean glares, not bothering to hide his scorn. “That doesn’t make anysense _Sir_ Zachariah. Why would my father help _strengthen_ his sworn enemy?”

Zachariah shrugs. “I don’t profess to understand the intricacies of the primitive mind, perhaps he means to betray Crowley as he betrayed our King. You have a brother don’t you? Maybe John will give him to Crowley to distract with his sluttish heathen ways in bed, and then stab him in the back.” He eyes Dean with a curled lip. “It seems a viable tactic.”

“Zachariah!” Anael snaps. “You will not speak to my good-brother in such a manner.”

Zachariah inclines his head. “Forgive me your highness, I find myself overwrought.”

Balthazar snorts. “Oh I’m sure,” he drawls, eyeing Zachariah. “Your love of Prince Dean is so well known, I am _shocked_ to find you using this as a reason to call for his head.”

“What?” Anael asks.

“Zachariah here was against the match from the start, as you well know Princess. Over winter Castiel came to believe he was behind several lackluster attempts on Prince Dean’s life.”

“Several?” Dean asks with a frown. He was only aware of one - the ambush.

Balthazar waves a hand indolently. “Oh you know how it is. The usual. Someone tried to poison your food a few times when you first arrived in Zion and an assassin was found lurking in your rooms one day when you were riding. After that poorly arranged ambush on the road he began to suspect Zachariah was behind them all.”

“Lies!” Zachariah hisses. “I spoke against the match because I feared an outcome just such as this! I did not trust King John - and it appears my fears were well founded – but I never made any attempt up the Prince’s life!”

Balthazar does not look convinced by the outburst. “Is that so? Well I can only repeat what the king told me, and he was quite convinced you wanted Dean dead, and given that ‘advice’ you gave him very nearly achieved that end, I don’t find it that hard to believe.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Zachariah sniffs.

“Why do you think he sent Inais north to treat with Prince Gabriel?” Balthazar asks. “He wanted to get his cousin out of your bed and knew Gabriel, for all his cowardice, would not turn his own kin aside.”

Anael looks between the two knights, frowning in confusion. Ariel remains as placid as ever, but she too is hanging onto to the exchange with just as much interest as the princess.

Dean for his part just wants to know how _Zachariah_ could have possibly had anything to do with his blood fever, which is the only brush with death Balthazar can possibly be referring to. Perhaps Missouri’s talk of poison had been more accurate than he thought. “What are you talking about?”

Balthazar looks at him for a moment, then glances at Anael and Ariel almost hesitantly before visibly gathering himself. “Zachariah here is the reason you spent the first few months of your marriage being raped bloody every night until it damn near killed you.”

Anael gasps and presses a hand to her mouth, Dean can feel her eyes on him and his own cheeks burning in embarrassment and anger, but he keeps his eyes on Balthazar. _“What?”_

Balthazar. “Your doctor, she told Castiel he had been far too rough on you, that your blood fever came from a wound he had caused you, not one from a blade. He came to me for advice and the entire mess Zachariah had woven between you two became depressingly apparent.”

“Castiel _never_ raped me,” Dean says very carefully, Anael’s eyes heavy upon him.

Balthazar frowns in confusion. “As good as,” he says. “Don’t tell me he never spoke of this?”

Dean shakes his head.

The knight groans. “At least he put my advice to practical use I suppose,” he mutters.

“Balthazar, what are talking about?” Anael asks lowly. “Castiel would never… never _rape_ Dean,” she whispers the word like even saying it is upsetting. “He detests such violence and he… cares a great deal for Dean. I know it.”

Balthazar looks at her, seeming to weigh his words. “Princess, are you aware of how men lay with one another?”

“Yes of course, I’m not a _child_.”

“Well Zachariah told your brother - pious repressed fool who’d never so much as tumbled a scullery maid or serving boy outside the marriage bed - that laying with Dean here would be no different to laying with the late lamented Lady Daphne.”

“I said no such thing!” Zachariah insists.

Balthazar’s one visible eyebrow lifts, nearly vanishing under his bandaging. “He related the conversation to me verbatim Zach. You told him just enough to ensure he’d hurt the Prince horribly. No doubt you were hoping to sow discord between them - perhaps you were hoping Dean’d break Cassie’s nose during the consummation. Sadly poor Dean here was apparently the only Saxon in all of Wessex to be as pure and virginal as driven snow and from what Samandriel told me of their wedding night, appears to have a much higher tolerance for pain than most.” He eyes Zachariah with distaste. “I’m sure _you_ would have squealed like a pig.”

Zachariah has gone red, but he doesn’t appear at all guilty or ashamed. “I recall now the king asked me for advice, but only in passing and it was late and we’d been drinking. I can’t recall _exactly_ what I told him but it’s possible I missed some of the specifics in my explanation.”

Dean’s thoughts are reeling. Between the news of Castiel’s capture, the defeat of the Edenish army, his father’s supposed betrayal and now this, that somehow _Zachariah_ is to blame for all Dean’s suffering, he doesn’t know what to think. He tries to order his thoughts. Whatever Balthazar is speaking of can wait, what’s important is Crowley and the mystery of the ambush. Zachariah’s sabotage of his marriage is trivial in comparison. “This is beside the point,” he says. “We need to find out why my father did not ride as agreed, what game Crowley is playing.”

Balthazar purses his lips. “What we _need_ to do is magically conjure an army out of thin air and march south with them before Princess Raphael is overrun.”

“There is an army out there already – my father’s,” Dean reminds him.

“Oh you want us to put our trust in Wessex again?” Zachariah demands. “It was putting our faith in you heathens that got us into this mess in the first place!”

Dean crosses his arms. “If I am willing put aside your apparent involvement in _attempting to assassinate me_ , I think you should be able to put aside your hatred of all things Saxon for a moment and actually use your brain Sir Zachariah.”

“I agree with the Prince in this matter,” Ariel says. “I do not trust your judgment where Dean or King John are concerned Sir Zachariah.”

“But don’t you see?” Zachariah yells. “This whole time, everything he’s said and done, has been a _lie_. He was sent here by his father to distract the king, to tempt and beguile him so he would fall straight into the trap set for him!”

“He’s pretty but I doubt the king would have sent his first born, and a clueless damned virgin to boot, to ‘tempt’ and ‘beguile’ anyone,” Balthazar scoffs. “A well trained whore with a passing resemblance would have been more effective and would not have resulted in this undesirable outcome – his son suspected and surrounded by would be enemies.”

“No that is why it worked so well!” Zachariah insists. “Even now, in light of our own ruin and his father’s betrayal, no one suspect him and he is perfectly posed to push us to further ruin. See how carefully he has ingratiated himself with our Princess? With our king gone he no doubt intends to pray upon her sorrows and before we know it he will be consort to _Anael_ instead of Castiel _-_ a ruler younger and easier to manipulate!”

Anael stares at Zachariah like he has two heads.

Dean can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. _“What?_ You think I’m trying to seduce Anael?”

“Your words not mine!” Zachariah spits back.

Balthazar sighs again. “Oh for fucksake. Zach stop trying to pin this entire mess on the boy.” He gestures towards Anael. “He doesn’t have designs on the princess.”

“I also find that theory hard to believe,” Ariel adds.

“As do I,” Anael says, frowning. “Dean is my _friend._ I’m a princess. I am familiar with how men act when they wish me to fall in love with them, they have been doing it half my life.” She glances at Dean. “Dean has never behaved in that way towards me.”

“Not _yet,”_ Zachariah insists. “He’s been playing at being your friend, getting you to trust him. With Castiel out of the way I’m sure he’ll suddenly have a change of heart.”

Dean restrains the urge to throttle the man, but only just.

“Sir Zachariah--” Ariel starts, frowning.

“No! This must be said! For months this heathen has been worming his way into our King and our Princess’s confidences. Sneaking off to the ruins and spilling blood for his demon-gods, working Lord knows what witchraft upon our poor king!”

Dean takes a step towards the man, his fists clenched tight. One of the guards places a gauntleted hand upon his shoulder and restrains him however. Victor inches closer, tense. “I have been _praying_ not doing witchcraft!” Dean hisses. “And my gods aren’t demons!”

“ _Praying,”_ Zachariah parrots back. “The unholy altar you have been _praying_ before is stained red with blood! Who knows what you’ve been sacrificing for your heathen gods when you creep down there in the middle of the night! Lambs? Kittens? Foundling babes?”

If it were not for the tight grip on his shoulder Dean’s fist would be buried in Zachariah’s red face. “It’s _wine_ you idiot! When I pray to Frige I offer her _wine_ not blood! And I don’t sneak down there at night, I was down there this morning with my guards.”

Ion clears his throat and addresses Anael. “Your highness, forgive the interruption, but the prince speaks truth. He does not leave the palace at night, nor has he offered more than food and wine to his gods since Ephraim and I have been guarding him.”

Anael nods and turns to Zachariah. Her voice is cool. “I will hear no more of these accusations Sir, my brother spoke of his mistrust of you where Dean is concerned.”

“Lies whispered in his ear by the snake in his bed,” Zachariah says.

Balthazar groans and presses a hand to his head. “Zach, do yourself a favor and shut up.”

Dean cannot hold his tongue anymore. “You speak of lies? You're the traitor! You arranged to have me _killed_. You goaded me to ride ahead alone during our journey south and straight into an ambush of your making. I should have asked Castiel for your head when your plan failed. He would have given it to me!”

To Dean’s surprise, Zachariah doesn’t look worried or angry, in fact he smirks, just a little. “You should have, I’m sure the king would have done whatever you asked him to, you had him so enthralled with you, barely able to drag himself away from your bed.”

 _“ZACHARIAH,”_ Balthazar bellows, the sheer volume coming from the rather unassuming figure making everyone in the room flinch and start. “We have been over this. The Prince is not some slattern bed slave, and he hardly welcomed Castiel in his bed, more like put up with it. You made sure of that.”

Zachariah huffs, straightening and glaring at Balthazar for a long moment. “I have no proof to clear my name of _that_ accusation,” he says. “But I do have proof that I did _not_ arrange this so-called ‘ambush’ upon him.” He motions to a servant standing off to one side. “Bring the prisoner.”

Dean watches the servant as he hurries from the room in confusion and quiet dread, wondering what fresh scheme Zachariah has planned. The man is gone only minutes. Anael, Balthazar, and Ariel remain where they were, but Dean has crossed the room to stand by the fire, both for warmth and because Anael seemed so uncomfortable in his presence, barely able to look at him. Zachariah is off to one side. Shunned by his peers, but not entirely.

A man in chains is led into the room by two guards in simple mail and dark tunics. His beard is grown out, as is his hair, but his clothes are well-made and clean and he does not look starved or abused in any way. Behind him, Dean hears Victor curse quietly under his breath as he apparently recognizes the man. Dean however, does not.

Zachariah steps forwards again. “Your highness,” he says inclining his head to Anael. “This is Sir Virgil, the knight who led the ambush upon the prince.”

Dean starts in shock. He did not recognize the man out of armor and with his beard and hair grown out, but clearly Victor had. He wonders how the prisoner got here, if Castiel sent him back to the capital, who questioned him… why he looks so well fed…

“Now Sir Virgil, how did you come to be hiding in the bushes with a dozen archers?”

Sir Virgil shifts on his feet awkwardly and looks up at Anael only for a moment before ducking his head in what looks like shame or embarrassment. “I… I needed the gold your highness. I ran up debts in the city, I had to pay them off or they were going to go after my family. I’m sorry.”

Anael frowns.

“Who gave you the gold?” Zachariah asks. “And when did they approach you?”

“It was back after the King’s wedding. He didn’t give me a name but he was a Saxon. Tall with braids in his hair and gold around his neck.”

“And he paid you to attack his own Prince?” Anael asks dubiously.

“No,” Sir Virgil says, turning to glance at Dean. “He said when the king rode south, we were to break away and wait past the bridge and our target would ride on ahead of the main column. I didn’t know who it would be.”

Anael doesn’t look impressed. “You took gold without even knowing who you were to kill?”

The man shrugs. “I needed it.”

“So you see you highness,” Zachariah interrupts. “The entire thing was arranged by Saxons, by King John or perhaps the Prince himself. It was never a real threat, just a ruse to turn Castiel against his most loyal advisors and lords, those of us who, rightly as it turned out, did not trust the heathens.”

“It’s the word of one man!” Dean exclaims, “And if he were truly privy to such things, why would I have allowed him to live and delivered him back to Castiel?”

Balathazar nods. “I agree. I’d trust Virgil here about as far as I could throw him.”

“Perhaps on its own his word is worth little,” Zachariah concedes, gesturing towards one of the prison guards and taking a leather purse from him. “But it does explain how he and his men came to be paid in fresh minted Wessex sceatas brought north by the King.” He upturns the purse and a shower of shining gold coins rattle to the floor.

“You _liar!_ ” Dean hisses, trying to step forward again but being held back by the guard at his side. Victor steps in close beside him, his hand on his sword.

Ariel ducks down and picks up a handful of coins and passes them between Anael and Balthazar to examine. She is frowning.

Balthazar doesn’t look pleased either. “Where did you meet this Saxon who supposedly hired you?” he asks Virgil.

The man hesitates, looking at Anael and Ariel and blushing. “At a, er – at a whorehouse sir.”

Balthazar hums. “Well that part at least is believable.”

Anael turns the sceat over in her hand thoughtfully for a minute before addressing the prisoner. “What if it had been the King who rode into your trap? Would you have still tried to kill him?”

Virgil shakes his head. “No your highness of course not! He said it was not a northerner he wanted dealt with, I would not have taken the money if it had been!”

She purses her lips. “So you _did_ know it was Prince Dean you were to kill then?”

“Ah…” Virgil flounders for a moment, looking to Zachariah as if for guidance. The other knight ignores him however. “Well, I thought it _might_ be him, I mean, him or one of his men I guess?” He licks his lips. “I thought maybe that one,” he jerks a thumb at Victor. “That maybe they were angry that he’d married an Edenish woman or something?”

Balthazar snorts.

Virgil shifts on his feet. “I don’t know! It was a Saxon and he just wanted some other Saxon dead and I needed the gold and it was none of my business!”

“They have been playing us this entire time,” Zachariah says. “John sent his son to beguile and distract Castiel so he would be drawn into Crowley’s trap. The lengths they have gone to to make the alliance believable are extensive, but clearly worthwhile since our King is lost and Eden is defenseless and King John has not even had to lift a finger to see to our ruin.”

“My father would _never-”_ Dean starts but Zachariah just talks over him.

“Perhaps he intends to destroy Crowley, eventually, but it is clear he did not enter the treaty with us in good faith.”

It’s insane. The whole stupid convoluted plot Zachariah has woven together is ludicrous to _anyone_ who knows John of Wessex. Dean cannot believe anyone would believe any part of it, but Ariel and Balthazar are frowning and Anael’s lips are pursed and bloodless and none of them will look at him. He thinks of what Castiel told him, how his father had raised him to believe all Saxons were demon-worshiping barbarians, how he thought his death would result in civil war if the heir he left was Dean’s.

No one in Eden knows John of Wessex, not really. They do not know how unthinkable siding with Crowley would be to him, even if it was only temporary. They do not know how despised cowards and oathbreakers are in Wessex. It does not sound absurd to them, it probably sounds… like it might be true. What is King John’s word worth? King or not he’s a devil worshipping heathen.

All Dean’s indignation and righteous anger is sudden striped from him. “You cannot truly think I would do such things?” he asks quietly, looking at Anael.

The Princess meets his eyes but her face is twisted up with sadness and confusion and Dean sees that she doubts him.

“The penalty for treason is death,” Zachariah says. “You are our Queen now, you must see justice is served for Castiel.”

Anael looks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo plot!


	18. Chapter 18

They lock Dean in his chamber.

A part of him is almost amused. Anael has more things in common with Castiel than Dean realized.

Outside his door there are guards he doesn’t know, knights in the polished armor and the bright cloaks of royal guards that he recognizes only vaguely from around the palace. Ion and Ephraim are called away or sent away - he’s not sure which. Ion must know the guards though, because a scarcely an hour after he is locked up, they open the heavy door enough that he can press his face into the gap and speak to Dean for a moment.

“My prince,” he calls, rushed and panicked. Dean bounds across the room to stand before the cracked door in an instant. Ion’s eyes flick over him and he realizes he’s still barefoot and dressed for sleep. He supposes he should fix that, dress in something suitable for whatever is to befall him. Cloth-of-gold fit for the burial mound would be most fitting perhaps. “Benedickt and Victor have been imprisoned,” Ion says. “But in the cells in the east tower, not in the dungeon.”

Dean nods, feeling relief at that at least. One of the first places Anael had taken him to explore when he first arrived in Zion was the East Tower, though it is not really a tower, more an old drum keep that had been swallowed whole by the palace as it grew around it. King Michael had had it outfitted for highborn prisoners during the civil war with Lucifer. Anael found the place very exciting and had shown him around it, telling him stories about the crazy lords and traitorous cousins who her father had kept locked up there. Once King Michael had even banished Castiel there for a week as punishment for some childish disobedience.

If Benny and Victor are in the tower and not the dungeon, that is a very good sign. Anael obviously doesn’t wish them to be harmed or ‘questioned’ down in the dungeon.

“They are unharmed?” Dean asks, because when he saw Victor last he’d ordered him not to draw his sword but the man’s face had been twisted with rage and Dean would not put picking a fight with Anael’s guards beyond him. As for Benny, well…

“Thegn Benedickt reacted poorly when the guards fetched him from the lower halls,” Ion tells him. “But he is not badly injured, and Victor is untouched.”

Dean lets out a breath he did not realize he’d been holding. Ion looks over his shoulder and hisses something Dean doesn’t quite catch at one of the other guards. “I must go,” he says catching Dean’s eye again. “The Princess has called her council, such as it is, and will send for you when she has decided what is to be done.” The knight gives him one last pitying look and says, “Farewell Aetheling, I hope your gods are with you,” in his accented West Saxon before he turns aside and the door is pulled shut with a dull thud.

Dean sighs and rests his head against the wood for a moment. Things are not so bad as they could be, he and his thegn are held prisoner but comfortably – the cells Benny and Victor are locked in are probably more lavish than their own rooms. He wonders if Victor’s Edenish wife has been told of her husband’s supposed treason, for that is what his thegn face. If Anael decides Zachariah’s lies are truth, Benny and Victor will share whatever punishment she sets for him. Co-conspirators. Treason against the King. It will be death undoubtedly.

He curses himself for ignoring Zachariah so long. If he’d dealt with him to start with, demanded Castiel kill him for his role in the ambush, well, in all likelihood some other Edenish knight or lord would have taken his place in whatever plot Dean has unwittingly fallen into, but at least he’d have the satisfaction of knowing _Zachariah_ was dead.

With nothing better to do, he sits at his desk and adds up what he knows, all the bits and pieces, and tries to figure out the big picture of what has happened. Castiel is wounded, taken prisoner at least, killed more likely.  That is something that does not quite feel real, no matter how often he reminds himself of the fact. Castiel _cannot_ be dead, and so Dean cannot mourn him. He is a prisoner then, that is something Dean can accept.

And it is not so unlikely, despite what Balthazar and the others claimed. Crowley is no fool, he would not kill Castiel if he had the chance to keep him alive. Until the war is done he is a useful bargaining chip and tool. So Crowley will not kill him. Will not even hurt him too badly, not until he is certain he won’t have a use for him. Oh _then_ he will carve him into pieces, mutilate and tear him apart in that slow, terrible, way he and his demons have perfected - that is a given - but Dean knows how demons think, knows how _Crowley_ thinks, more than Balthazar and the others and he is sure Castiel still lives.

The only way Castiel could be dead is by accident, if the wound he took on the battlefield was a mortal one, and given all the planning that has gone into this plot, Dean does not think Crowley would risk such a thing. It is not just wishful thinking. It makes sense with what Dean has learned of Crowley and his kind over the years fighting on the Saxon border.

With that knowledge firmly set in his thoughts he manages to turn his attention away from his husband’s personal peril to his own and that of their respective kingdoms.

He reviews the facts. The Saxon army was removed from the playing field somehow and the Edenish one lured into an elaborate ambush. It points to a grand treason long planned; and one that would have to span both the West Saxon and Edenish courts. Whoever was behind this mess must have spies highly placed in both Winchester and Zion. Zachariah is a given, but who else?

Dean thinks on who stands to benefit from things as they are. _Crowley_ obviously, but in Eden? Anael perhaps. She will be queen. But she will need a consort, and as Zachariah pointed out, she is young and whoever that consort is, he could end up with great influence over her and the country. But she has no especial suitors that Dean is aware of, and all of the most eligible rode south.

There is Balthazar, Dean supposes, but even though the man is unwed, Dean cannot see him in the role of seducer. And Anael seems to be one of the few at court immune to his charms. And Balthazar’s friendship with Castiel is not fake, Dean is sure of that. He dismisses the thought. Balthazar is not involved. He can think of no others though, only, as Zachariah claimed, he himself. He did not ride south so he is best positioned to take advantage of Castiel’s death by marrying his sister.

There must be some ending to this that he cannot yet see.

He re-reads Sam and his uncle’s letters, hoping for some sign. Again he is struck by how strange Sam’s is, but there is no secret meaning he can divine. Though it does occur to him how Christian had been wearing the golden torc John had presented him with every time Dean saw him during the paracleda. _Gold at his neck and braids in his hair,_ Sir Virgil had said.That could describe his cousin. And if the Campbells were involved in whatever treason had been sown in Wessex to keep John and his army from where they were supposed to be, Sam might be aware of it stuck as he was in Campbellfyrd. The strangeness of letter itself might be the message. Sam telling him that _something_ is wrong even if he doesn’t know what precisely.

It makes more sense than anything else he has thought of.

Except, what can Christian hope to gain? He has no claim to any throne. And if the plot goes higher, if it is Lord Campbell – a thing Dean cannot imagine for his mother had been Lord Samuel’s favorite, and plotting against her sons - (Sam is his _namesake_ by the gods) -does not fit with anything Dean knows of the man. He is stiff and hard, but very loyal to his family.

But he _has Sam._ So… so perhaps he just sort to rid himself of John? Put his grandson on the throne before his time and rule through him. That makes more sense, but still seems unlikely. There would be far easier ways to reach such an end. An assassin while John slept. A traitor on the battlefield to make sure some arrow or blade made its mark. Samuel would have the power, without the being tarred as a traitor.

No, the most likely plot, Dean decides, is that Crowley has fooled his vain, prideful cousin into believing some lie - that he will be given a throne, maybe Castiel’s with Anael thrown in to sweeten the deal and legitimize his claim - and _Christian_ is behind the treachery in Wessex. No doubt he rode with John, was privy to much of his planning. He would be well positioned to betray him.

Most likely John thinks _Castiel_ has betrayed him, reneged on the alliance. Even now he is probably seething in Winchester, unaware of what has befallen his would-be allies. That will not last though, no number of spies will be able to keep word from trickling back south through the common folk. John will learn the truth, or hear rumor of it, soon if he has not already. What will he do then? Ride to Raphael’s aid? Try and lay siege to Crowley’s capital while his men are distracted in the north?

But if Crowley has gone to such efforts in his plotting, he will surely have made plans to stop John interfering in his plans in Eden.

Where does that leave Dean?

Alone.

His father cannot save him from Zachariah’s plots, and when he hears of them, most likely it will be too late. Anael will have struck his head off and John will have another grudge to nurse in that bitter heart of his. He will want Edenish blood in payment for Dean’s as much as he wants Crowley’s for Mary’s. Dean’s death will irrevocably cement Eden and Wessex as enemies once more. The alliance that should have purged the blight of Perdition from their lands will be utterly destroyed.

There is nothing Dean can do. He can only pray Anael does not fall for Zachariah’s lies.

He waits. Food is brought to him by armed guards he does not know, not Missouri or his usual servants. They do not answer him when he speaks to him, will not even look at him. His stomach twists in knots, but he forces himself to eat simply for something to do.

At some point he washes up and dresses. He stares at the chests of fine tunics, Edenish silk and Saxon linen, for a long time trying to decide what to wear. He is sure Anael would know what was appropriate, but he’s not sure. In the end he dons comfortable Saxon trousers and a tunic but pulls on one of the Edenish surcoats with the embroidery Castiel had made for him.

He doesn’t cover himself in gold, but he puts on a few of the nicer pieces from the chest his father gave him and pulls out the more comfortable circlet so it’s there, ready for when he is summoned. It seems wise to remind them that he’s a King’s son in his own right. Even if they think him guilty common sense might save him and his thegn. Angering John would not be wise, even if all Zachariah says is true.

All day he waits, but it is the middle of the night when he is finally summoned. He has not slept, sits fully dressed and waiting when they open the door and call him forth. Guards flank him as he is lead across the palace to the throne room, not Anael’s apartments. The corridors are empty and still and Dean is glad there are no gossiping crowds to sneer and hiss this time.

The long Hall the throne sits in is mostly empty, only a few dozen Edenish lords and ladies gathered to either side of the gilt silver throne Anael sits upon it, a circlet on her head, looking very pale and young. She seems too small to be sitting it, does not fill it the way Castiel had. With only candle light brighting the midnight gloom, the Hall seems dark and sinister as opposed to bright and full of color as Dean recalls it from when he and his father first arrived in Zion.

Ariel, Balthazar and Zachariah are nearby, as are older Lords and Ladies who did not ride to war with their king. They all look grim-faced and some sneer and glare as Dean is brought closer. Most however are stony-faced and Dean cannot tell what they are thinking, if they think him guilty. Off to one side, striped of their weapons and armor and with shackles upon their wrists, are Benny and Victor. Ion and Ephraim stand among the royal guards watching them. They both try and catch his eye, faces twisting as they try to convey support or something. Dean gives them a little nod and they both relax a little. He hopes they will be spared whatever punishment he faces, but knows there is little chance of them being pardoned.

Squaring his shoulders he stops directly before Anael upon the throne. She is high above him, seated on a dais, and in daylight would make an imposing sight – the tall windows of brightly colored glass behind her would light up with the sun and near dazzle him, set the silver of the throne glinting. As it is however she is almost in shadow, her white dress gray in the low light from the candelabra above and her skin bleached out like bone.

Dean is not calm, his heart his racing, but he is not awe-struck as he had been the last time he stood in this place, the first time he laid eyes upon Castiel, and so he does not forget himself. He does not salute her as he had Castiel, he bows before her in the proper Edenish fashion.

She inclines her head in response but does not relax at all from her stiff upright posture.

“Dean of Wessex,” she says and her Enochian sounds harsh and strange all of sudden. “You are accused of conspiring against my brother - our King. Of committing treason against the crown, of entering into marriage deceitfully, of seducing the king and using witchcraft against him--"

Witchcraft. Dean is surprised that that particular claim has stuck, but supposes he ought not to be. If the stories told back in Wessex of what the Christians up north do to witches and heathens are true, maybe she’ll have him burned at the stake. Zachariah will no doubt eagerly suggest it. But perhaps she’ll be merciful and have him beheaded. He supposes he should be glad cutting the [blood eagle](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood_eagle) upon him isn’t on the cards. Being burned alive sounds pleasant in comparison really. Still, he’d much prefer a clean death under an axe.

“—And of plotting the with the enemy to arrange the ambush of his armies and his murder at their hands. What say you?” She leans forward a little, peering down at him with a furrow to her brow that is very _Castiel._

Dean sighs. “I never conspired with anyone,” he tells her, making sure his voice is loud and clear enough so all will hear him. He cuts his eyes towards Zachariah and lets his scorn show for a moment. “And I’m certainly not a _witch_. Whatever treason has been done, and I do not doubt that Castiel has been conspired against, I was not a party to it.”

Zachariah snorts and turns to mutter something to the red-haired woman at his side. Lady Naomi perhaps. Dean is only vaguely familiar with her.

“I am merely a scapegoat for the traitors lurking in these halls,” he finishes.

Anael nods and sits back in the throne. “I believe you,” she says, perfectly calm and at ease all of a sudden.

A few of her Lords and Ladies turn to stare and let out shocked little gasps and noises. Others look relieved. Most don’t seem to react much at all, their Edenish stoicism too hard to interpret.

Zachariah steps towards the throne, mounting the bottom steps and reaching out towards Anael in a parody of supplication. His voice is high with disbelief. “Your highness? You cannot let him get away with this!”

Anael slowly turns to look down at him. Her face is like stone, when she speaks though it is plain that _rage_ bubbles right below the surface of that pretty face of hers. “You would have me kill my brother’s husband in his name?” she demands icily. “ _Murder_ his beloved based on speculation and hearsay?” Dean starts a little at being referred to as Cas’s _beloved,_ shifts on his feet in embarrassment, but Anael continues, her voice rising and he has no time to dwell on it. “We do not even know if Castiel is dead but you would have his consort beheaded for his murder?”

“He was seen to take an arrow and fall from his horse Princess, I wish it were not true, but if he yet lives it will be a miracle,” Zachariah says.

“Even if that is so, I know he would not want Dean blamed for it.” She glances around at the assembled lords and ladies. “Some of you seem very eager to condemn the Prince Consort based on the words of a man who tried to kill him, and _you_ Sir Zachariah,” she points at him, “Have shown him nothing but suspicion and disrespect since he arrived in Eden. The king you _claim_ to be defending thought you plotted against him.”

“Your majesty,” Zachariah starts. “I would _never-“_

 _“Do not call me that,”_ Anael hisses. “I am regent, not queen and I am young, not blind or stupid! I will not _murder_ Castiel’s husband because you give me a stooge and a few gold coins lost at gambling!”

The hall has gone utterly still. Anael’s cheeks are flushed and she seems to be working herself up to something. Dean finds himself quite hopeful all of a sudden. A part of him feels guilty for ever having doubted Anael for as she says, she is young not stupid. He should have trusted her to see through Zachariah’s lies.

“Even if all you say is true – which I do not believe for a _second_ \- killing Dean would only serve to make our position even more precarious,” she continues, lecturing Zachariah. “ _Beheading his son_ might encourage King John to suddenly rediscover his misplaced army don’t you think? Do you think me stupid enough to bring _two_ armies down upon us instead of one? Are _you_ so stupid that you did not think of that?”

Zachariah splutters. “I... Your Highness I assure you...”

“Of course not!” Anael says. “It was your cleverness that got you so far Sir Zachariah. You are perfectly aware of the consequences of killing Dean and yet you counsel me towards it. The only conclusion I can draw is that you wish for war between Wessex and Eden.”

“Never! I wish only for justice for our king!” Zachariah insists. Dean notes that the red-headed woman. Naomi, is no longer standing beside him, has edged backwards putting space between them.

“You can tell him as much when he returns,” Anael says. “You are to be held in the tower until his return. My brother can deal with you at his leisure.”

One sharp look from her and two royal guards are placing their hands upon the spluttering man. Dean cannot help but smile at him when he glares in his direction. “He has poisoned you!” Zachariah says. “He has a serpent’s tongue honeyed with lies!”

Anael sneers at him and waves her hand. The guards drag him from the hall. He continues yelling, but Anael doesn’t seem to be listening. She settles back in the throne more comfortably and takes a slow breath. When she speaks again her voice is steady once more. “Only Castiel may cast judgment upon Prince Dean for his so-called treason,” she says. “So until such time as he is able to do so-” She settles her attention back upon Dean. “-You are exiled from Eden.”

There is murmuring and shuffling, but it is restrained. Dean bows to Anael, “Thank you your highness.”

She nods. “Your men will accompany you,” she says, turning to where Benny and Victor stand shackled and glowering but in far better spirits than when Dean had first walked in. “Release them.”

The moment their shackles hit the floor his thegn instantly cross to stand behind Dean.

“You may take your arms and such supplies as you require and then you will depart immediately,” Anael tells him.

Ion and Ephraim both step forward from the line of guards. Ephraim stops before the throne and bows deeply to Anael. “Your highness,” he says. “The king bade us guard the Prince with our lives. We would keep our word to him until such time as he may rescind it.”

The princess looks surprised for a moment, but recovers quickly enough, “Very well, you have my leave to accompany him into exile.”

“I would join the Prince also your highness,” Ariel says, stepping forward from where she as stood silent and watchful behind the throne. “As long as Castiel still lives, Dean is our Prince Consort and our kin by marriage. It would be a dishonor to our king and our family both, for him to be sent out unaccompanied.”

“Very well cousin,” Anael says, and Dean thinks he detects approval in her tone.

For himself Dean is a little suspicious, but also quite touched. The chances of them falling prey to some contrived ‘bandit’ attack on the road home decrease significantly with Anael’s favorite cousin riding with them. Not to mention her skill with a bow may prove useful.

Dean does not get to bid Anael farewell privately, but he shares a long look with her before he is lead from the throne room, and he hopes his gratitude for her trust in him is evident. At his last glimpse of her sitting small and young in the great Edenish throne, he just hopes that she has the strength to withstand the plotters who have undone her brother.

Back in his rooms he packs up a few things in a daze, unsure if he will ever return. Missouri appears, frantic, looking like she has not slept, and helps him, finding his best riding boots and helping him change into mail and armor. She empties out the chest of goldwork and starts wrapping brooches and pins in a soft tunic, but Dean waves her off. He has purses of coins, Saxon gold and Edenish silver. He’d rather have a spare cloak or room for food then gold weighing down his saddle bags. Of course, she is horrified. To her it probably seems incredibly wasteful.

“You can’t leave your gold here for the crows to peck over!” she insists.

“I doubt the Princess will let them ransack my chambers,” Dean tells her.

She crosses her arms and gives a look that says exactly what she thinks of that claim.

Dean sighs and picks up the circlet he’d been wearing earlier, the simple one. He carefully packs it away in with his clothes while Missouri watches, then puts on a golden torc and a pair of cuffs. There is already a golden pin on his cloak. Glancing down at the rest of the pile he says, “Hide it then, I’m sure you can think of some place no one will find it.”

Missouri doesn’t look overly pleased with that suggestion either. “It’s not my place…” she says.

Dean picks up the elaborate circlet, the one set with stones that sits heavy and awkward on his brow. “Look after this then, the rest are just trinkets. That,” he taps the lines of runes etched along the band. “Has my name on it. My father had the goldsmiths in Winchester make it especial before we rode north. I’d rather no ‘crows’ as you put it get their hands on it, but it’s too awkward to take with me.”

Missouri accepts it from him hesitantly. Dean turns back and picks up a ring from the pile on the bed. It’s set with a red stone. A small thing, but he does not think Missouri would accept anything larger. “Here,” he says, passing it to her. “A gift.”

Her eyes widen and she tries to give it back but Dean dances away from her.

“A thank you for all you have done for me,” he insists. “For your service.”

“I’ve no right to be wearing golden rings,” she says.

Dean shrugs. “Then sell it and buy a goat or something.”

“ _One_ goat?” she scoffs, “Maybe a dozen.”

“A dozen then,” Dean amends. “I don’t know how much the average goat goes for in Zion.”

The guards at the door admit Ariel and Victor. Missouri’s face turns sour again and she curls her fist around the ring and then fiddles with her apron and skirts and suddenly the circlet is gone. Dean shoulders his saddle bags and gives her a grin. “I’ll be back,” he says, pulling her close one-armed and giving her a lopsided hug.

“You better,” she says. “Prince or no, your Latin is awful. You still need teaching.”

“Can’t be as bad as your Enochian,” Dean teases her just to see her pout.

***

Lady Ariel, as member of the royal family, has requested and been given an honor guard to accompany her from the Capital. The handpicked knights, men and women she knows and trusts, seem to have been forewarned of the trip, or are perhaps more accustomed to riding on short notice, because they are saddled up and ready to ride when Ariel leads Dean down to the stables.

Impala is already saddled and it is simply a matter of settling his saddle bags across her rump and then they are ready. There are a few loitering nobles in the courtyard and more guards than usual on the front gates, but apart from that, no one to see them off. Dean thinks Anael must have planned as much when she called for him in the middle of the night. He is grateful for the lack of attention his departure gets. There is no cheering or jeering, just the clatter of hooves on stone.

There is little talking as they make their way through the sleeping city and out the main gates. It is dark and cold and the streets are abandoned. Dean is lost in his own thoughts and worries and imagines it is the same for everyone else. Victor has a fierce frown set on his face. He has had to leave his wife, his heavily pregnant wife, without even bidding her farewell. Dean trusts Anael will see she is not harmed, but he doubts that is very comforting for his thegn. He wishes he could order him to remain with her, but Victor is as exiled as Dean. Who knows when he will have leave to see his lady again. Long after the babe is born no doubt. Dean sighs.

They ride through dawn and do not stop for breakfast or lunch, eating in the saddle instead, and make camp only when twilight is dwindling into full dark. It is only then, sat at a fire while some porridge is cooked for them by one of Ariel’s knights, that Dean finally has the chance to speak to her properly.

“Crowley is behind this, not your father,” she says bluntly. “That is what my mother believes, and she more than any is in position to know. She knows Castiel’s court in ways he does not. I trust her judgment, as does Anael.”

“So you don’t think I’m some treasonous witch?” Dean asks sarcastically.

Ariel looks at him, long and hard, so long it has him flushing a little and squirming uncomfortably, like maybe she _does_ think him guilty of something. “No I do not. Crowley benefits from all of this. Not Wessex or Eden and certainly not _you_. He has unraveled an alliance that spelled his doom and sets to have his enemies making war upon each other instead of him.”

Hearing his own thoughts laid out so plainly somehow makes the threat feel all the more real. “I worry what I will find in Wessex,” Dean admits. “I fear my father has been drawn into a trap as Castiel was.”

Ariel narrows her eyes. “For that to have happened, there must be those high within your father’s circle working against him. You have suspicions?”

Dean hums thoughtfully. “My cousin Christian. I had thought his hatred of me petty jealousy that I was born a king’s son and he was not, but I wonder now if there is not more to it.” He hesitates for a moment and lowers his voice so none will overhear him. “But I do not think he was in league with Zachariah, even if Crowley is pulling both their strings. It was he who bore witness to the consummation of my marriage in my father’s stead, and where Zachariah sort to end that in discord he seemed eager to see it continue.”

“I was not surprised to learn Zachariah had some hand in that,” Ariel says. “Castiel can be cold, but he is not cruel, and yet my mother said he was rough with you. She disapproved, said it was unseemly and unbecoming of a King.”

Dean is not sure what to think of that. “Princess Raphael said that?” he asks in disbelief. She had seemed utterly unmoved at the time, though Dean had not really been thinking straight, had been too focused on his own pain and horror to really pay attention to the witnesses.

Ariel nods. “No one may question the King, but she speaks to me in confidence of things she would not admit to others.” She gives Dean and loaded look. “I am only telling you because it so directly involves you.”

Dean nods. For a time they are silent, but eventually he speaks again. “It’s plain Zachariah sought to get rid of me and destroy the alliance with Wessex from the start. But that was not Christian’s goal. He wished to hurt and humiliate me and used my marriage to do just that, but whatever his treason against my father is, it will be to serve his own ends not Zachariah’s. I just cannot think who would aid him? There is no reason for my grandfather Lord Campbell to be a party to it. He stands to gain nothing and he does not hate me or Sam like Christian does. Unless he intends to use my brother as a pawn, marry him to Lady Gwen perhaps and rule in his name.”

Ariel hums thoughtfully. “Men have done more for less. To see a line of Kings continue in their blood, that is reason enough for many.”

Dean frowns. “But Sam is _already_ his blood,” he reminds her. “He’s _named for him_ even. Our mother was Lord Campbell’s only child. He doted upon her utterly. I have seen him rarely these past few years, but he has always treated me kindly. He spent most of his time in Winchester when my mother alive. We saw him often. And when I was younger he would tell me how I looked like her.”

“Then perhaps it is not him,” Ariel says. “Perhaps we will arrive in Wessex and find your grandfather dead and your repellant cousin ruling as lord in his place. He seems not to care that you are his kin. After his treatment of you, I find it easy to think he would murder his Lord and use his Princely cousin as a pawn to steal your father’s throne.”

Dean sighs. “But he has no claim to it. There would be no point. No one would follow him.”

“You have a cousin on your father’s side don’t you?” she asks pointedly. “A girl?”

“Jo,” Dean says, an awful picture forming in his head. “Technically she Aetheling, the granddaughter of King Henry, but father disowned Lord Robert when he wed her mother, and Lady Ellen is a commoner.”

“But girl – this _Jo_ \- she is not a bastard?” Ariel says. “If all other lines were extinguished, the niece of King John, granddaughter of King Henry, and child of a man as respected as your uncle Lord Robert seems to be despite his diminished status - are there any who could dispute her claim?”

“No.” Dean replies. “Lord Robert is my father’s only living sibling, and King Henry had only a sister. She married a Prince of Dumnonia. Her grandsons are Dumnonian lords, foreigners. There are a few bastards and their descendants around Winchester, but Lady Jo’s claim is much stronger.”

“So if Christian married her the throne would be his to take in her name,” Ariel continues. “He just needs to get rid of King John, Lord Robert and you and your brother.”

For the first time, it occurs to Dean that it is not only his father and uncle in danger - Sam might be dead. Christian needs to kill him to clear his way to the throne. The letter Dean had from him is weeks, months old. Sam’s bones could be laying cold and moldering in some barrow already.

Despite the long ride and his sleepless night imprisoned in the palace before they set out, Dean barely sleeps that night. He lays listening to the horses shift and whicker softly to each other and the men snoring and he _worries_.

His brain puts together the most horrible scenarios possible from all that has happened. Castiel tortured by Crowley, flayed and cut and broken on the rack until his eyes turn black. Dean has seen the handiwork of Crowley’s cursed men, their king can only be worse with a blade. Perhaps even now he is cutting into Castiel’s flesh and tricking him, telling him that _Dean_ betrayed him just as Zachariah claimed, that all that had passed between them was a plot of his making. That Dean wanted nothing more than his throne, perhaps his sister.

Crowley is said to be gifted at twisting words, that his tongue is forked yet his voice somehow sweet.

When Dean manages to push those awful thoughts of Castiel in Crowley’s clutches from his head, he instead finds himself thinking of his brother, which is just as bad. Christian crouching over an unsuspecting Sam, running him through with his seax as he sleeps. Or maybe it was poison? Something more artful, something Christian can blame on assassins or spies… maybe even blame upon Eden and Castiel. If Anael had taken Dean’s head like Zachariah had hoped, those in Wessex would probably have accepted assassins sent after Sam with ease. 

And his grandfather would stand in the way – Christian would need the Lordship to worm his way close to Jo and gain a kingship - so Lord Campbell would share Sam’s fate. And what of Dean’s father and his uncle? Were they safe out on the battlefield? Or had they been betrayed and murdered on the march? Where they dead or somehow in Crowley’s hands already? Maybe that was they why they had not met with Castiel’s men, maybe Crowley had already lured them into an ambush…

At some point his exhaustion wins out and he sleeps, but he awakens red-eyed and restless at dawn. They eat a cold breakfast of hard biscuits dunked in weak tea not steeped long enough and then ride out, maintaining their punishing pace. They travel much faster than Dean did when he rode north to Zion with his father and they pass through Zachariah’s lands that evening and make camp in the forests beyond. No one suggests staying in the inn or seeking shelter from one of the homesteads on his estate. No one trusts how far Zachariah’s reach might be, especially in his home lands. They double the watch but no one sleeps easy that night and they are riding again at first light.

They slow their pace a little, for the sake of the horses, but still press on. Dean recognizes things as they ride, a river, a bridge, a tree blackened by lightning. If feels as if a lifetime has passed since he rode past them in the opposite direction and that disjointed sense of change makes him uncomfortable. He feels like a completely different person to the Dean who rode north. He wonders if Benny and Victor feel as changed as he.

They do not stick to the giant’s roads once they enter Wessex. Instead Dean, Benny and Victor lead them along the narrow village ways, across the fields and marshes, cutting across farmland and forest, straight towards Singer’s Hold. They debate heading straight for Winchester, but Singer’s Hold, which will be held by Lady Ellen and Lady Jo in Lord Robert’s absence seemed the wisest route. Sam is already in the south well within Christian’s grasp, but Jo could still be with her mother. Dean prays she is. And at any rate, he trusts Lady Ellen to speak the truth of what has happened in Wessex in his absence and they need news.

They debate obtaining Saxon garb for Ariel and her knights, but since Zachariah will have been able to send word on ahead, they have little chance of surprising anyone anyway, and a troupe of thegn riding cross-country when the full fyrd been called to war would still draw suspicion.

As such they ride openly, making use of such taverns as they can, and Dean’s presence buys them bed and board at farmhouses and manors alike. The talk they hear as they travel south is both reassuring and not. There is no talk of treason, but rather of great confusion. No news has come south from Winchester in weeks. Dean and his party are instead asked for news, and theirs – that the King John and the Saxon Fyrd are vanished somewhere in Perdition, that the Edenish were routed and that war goes badly - are things noble ladies and rídend wives alike are not thrilled to hear with  sons and husbands ridden off to fight.

Dean tells himself it could be a good thing. It might mean the entire situation has been blown out of proportion, that he is seeing plots where there is only Crowley’s trickiness and lies and plain old hatred at play. For all they know the tide has turned in Perdition already, perhaps King John and Lord Robert have struck out at Crowley’s capital while his armies have been occupied with Raphael in the north. Or come to her aid despite Crowley’s delays and are laying waste to his demons in the foothills of the pass. Maybe all Crowley has really managed is to buy himself a little time, delay the inevitable. It’s a comforting hope, one that Dean lets himself think on as he lays himself down at night. Sleep comes easy when he’s thinking of his father’s sword or his uncle’s spear buried in Crowley instead of rusting in the dirt on some bloodstained killing field.

He clutches at the pendant around his neck and prays to the gods for that to be the truth.

***

When they arrive, the village that spreads like the roots of a tree around the walls of Singer’s hold is quieter than Dean has ever seen it. Children and the elderly appear to be the only people present. Dean half expects to find some horror at the keep – heads above the gate perhaps – but it looks just as it always has. Squat round towers of grey stone and long low halls and stables of carved wood. Emptier, but unchanged.

Instead of stablehands, servants come and take their horses. Dean recognizes some of them - women whose families’ have served his uncle far longer than he was part of his household, and he, along with Benny and Victor, is recognized by them in return. There is much excitement at his presence and a lot of wide-eyed staring at Lady Ariel and Edenish knights in their plate and bright clothes. After so long living amidst them, Dean had forgotten how _strange_ they seemed to him at first. They are brought into the Keep and before his aunt immediately.

Lady Ellen looks older than Dean remembers, her hair more white than silver, her dress looser than it should be. “Dean!” she says when she sees him, and then he is being hugged tightly and kissed on both cheeks. The way she nearly squeezes the breath out of him instantly crushes any thought of her being fragile even if she looks diminished. “Oh thank the gods,” she murmurs. “But you are a sight for sore eyes.” She pulls away a little to look at him with a critical eye. “I’d say you’ve grown, but shorn like a sheep--” she runs a hand over his short hair, “I hardly recognize you.”

“I don’t miss combing it,” Dean tells her. “Or Benny yanking on my braids when I’m sleeping.”

At that she turns to look over his companions, nodding to Benny and Victor. “Boys, good to see you’re still breathing.”

They both nod and press their fists to their hearts, greeting her with respectful “My Lady”s despite her familiarity.

“And who are your… companions?” she asks, standing up taller and her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the Edenish knights looking around her hall curiously.

Dean gestures to Ariel. “This is Lady Ariel of Eden, daughter of Princess Raphael,” he says.

Ariel inclines her head politely. Dean is glad she doesn’t curtsey. Ellen looks confused enough as it is. “Lady Ellen,” she says speaking West Saxon for Ellen’s benefit. “It is an honor. Prince Dean has spoken very highly of yourself and your husband.”

Ellen nods back in return. “Any friend of Dean’s is welcome in Singer’s Hold,” she replies politely but coolly.

Ariel introduces Ion, Ephraim and the rest of the Edenish knights, all of whom bow elaborately to a bewildered Ellen. Benny bites at his bottom lip and Victor frowns as he tries to keep a straight face. The ‘courtly manners’ of the knights seem glaringly out of place in a Saxon Hall. And on top of all the bowing, it is obvious that his aunt is taken aback by all the gleaming plate and brightly dyed cloaks and tabards.

Dean glances down at his own subdued Saxon garb with something close to regret. He’d grown almost fond of those Edenish surcoats Castiel had given him. They were warm without being as cumbersome as a cloak.

Ellen draws him from his musings by sighing deeply. “What do you know Dean?” she asks. “If you’ve come back home, you must have heard something from Perdition.”

Her tone is very different to that of those they have questioned so far. Weary. “You have had news?” Dean demands.

She nods. “Of a sort. A coded message delivered by one of Bobby’s more convoluted methods of couriering.”

Dean feels an odd little jolt at hearing his Uncle called _Bobby_. He has not heard the nickname since the last time he saw Ellen. No one else dares to, or is permitted, to call him by it. Though Dean recalls when he was young Lord Robert was ‘Uncle Bobby’ to he and Sam, but that was long ago, before Dean was sent to serve and learn from him. Calling him ‘Uncle Bobby’ on the field or in front of his men was disrespectful so he had quickly broken the habit. ‘Uncle Robert’ had both familiarity and respect.

“Word from Perdition?” Ariel interjects. “What did it say?”

Ellen gives Dean a questioning look. “Lady Ariel can be trusted,” Dean assures her. “What did he say?”

“It was coded, didn’t go into much detail,” she forewarns and purses her lips. “And the news is bad.”

“Just tell us,” Dean says.

She nods and gives him a solemn look. “Very well. I’m afraid your father’s dead Dean.”

“What?” Dean asks because somehow, he had never _truly_ believed the great John of Wessex, his father, the _King_ could be- “ _dead?”_

Ellen takes his arm in her own and squeezes. “I’m sorry Dean, but that part was clear. The king is dead. I don’t know the how exactly, but I know who. It was your grandfather.”

Again Dean is left reeling. “Samuel? Not Christian?”

Ellen shrugs. “Oh I’m sure that little _prick_ was involved, but it’s Lord Campbell that Bobby named in the message.”

“How?” Dean demands. “ _Why?!”_

It doesn’t make any sense. _None of this makes any sense._ Why would the kindly man he remembers, his _grandfather,_ betray John? Betray Wessex to Perdition?

His aunt pulls a tiny scroll of parchment out from a pocket and passes it to him. “Here, see for yourself.”

There are two messages inked across the paper. The darkest is a generic message of love to Ellen and Jo, but underneath it is another row of tiny runes brought out by the flame judging from the singeing to the edges of the parchment. _Treason. Lrd Campbell. King dead. Fyrd split. Under siege. J & S in danger. Edenish?_

Dean reads it aloud for the Ariel and the knights’ benefit.

“So your father was ambushed as my cousin was,” Ariel surmises, giving him a pitying look. “I am sorry to hear it Prince Dean. But Crowley’s forces must be split then, if he has Lord Robert under siege somewhere. That is good news for Eden at least.” She glances at Ellen. “And Lord Robert.”

“My grandfather must mean to take the crown if Lord Robert fears for Jo and Sam,” Dean says numbly.

“As you feared,” Ariel agrees. “Put your brother on the throne and marry Christian to Jo, then get rid of Sam.”

“Lord Campbell is a proud, hard, bastard,” Ellen says. “But hurting you or Sam?” She shakes her head. “I don’t believe it. Whatever reason he has for betraying his king, it’s not because he wants a crown.” She gestures towards Dean. “ _You_ were his favorite when you were a boy. After Queen Mary married your father he stayed in Winchester to be near her. They were so close. He’d not do all this just to see Christian on the throne instead of you or Sam.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean says, shock turning to icy rage. “He’s a traitor and an oathbreaker. He murdered the king. I don’t care _why_ he did it. I’ll have his head.”

“He’s got Jo,” Ellen tells him, sounding scared instead of just tired for the first time. “She wanted to ride with the men, and of course her father could not tell her no, so she rode as far as Winchester.”

“We don’t know that,” Dean tells her. “She could be right where he left her, safe at court.”

Ellen shakes her head. “This message is old Dean,” she says. “By now Campbell will be back in Winchester with your father’s men. ‘Fyrd split’ Bobby said. I’ve no doubt he and his men are stuck in some godsforsaken hole in Perdition and Campbell is drinking your father’s mead in Winchester. Oh word hasn’t reached us this far north through the normal channels, but I’ve no doubt of it.”

“It would be a clean way to steal your father’s crown,” Ariel admits. “You Saxons are so touchy about liars and oathbreakers, if it was known he’d betrayed his king, would anyone kneel to him?”

“No,” Ellen spits. “But nor will they anyway, no matter the tale he spins. He’s no Aetheling. Not a drop of King’s blood in his veins.”

“Which means if he does have Jo he will not harm her,” Dean says. “He will solidify his position as Sam and Jo’s protector.”

“I _had_ been preparing to ride south,” Ellen tells them. “There is little I can do, but I’m no aetheling, no threat. He will let me see Joanna-Beth at least, so he can be seen to care.” She glances between Dean and Ariel. “There is room in my guard and I’m sure we could find spare armor to get Lady Ariel and her… _knights,_ looking like thegn.”

“He is expecting you, but will not be expecting us,” Dean says. “We have been riding openly, if he knows we are coming he will not expect us to start hiding now.”

“Your coming was a surprise to me and I’ve been keeping my ears open,” Elleb says. “We should beat any news coming south and I don’t think Campbell will be looking to you. Oh there’s been lots of gossip about you since you left, talk of how smitten that Edenish king was, how he feasted King John and his thegn for a full week, but that is all. As far as Wessex is concerned you’re an Edenish prince now. None will expect you to have ridden south.”

“Especially not your grandfather and the other Saxon plotters,” Ariel agrees. “They will send word to warn him soon enough, but for now they probably wait to hear of your execution.”

Ellen looks up sharply. “… _What?_ ” she drawls in disbelief.

Dean sighs. “The plotters in Eden sought to frame me as the traitor in Castiel’s court. And some sort of evil pagan witch-seducer to boot.”

“It was not a bad plan,” Ariel tells Ellen. “Princess Anael is fond of Dean, so they claimed Dean betrayed Castiel and intended to marry her and take the throne.”

Ellen frowns. “You were already married to the _king_ ,” she says. “Why trade one for the other?”

“Why indeed,” Dean mutters dryly. “Thankfully Anael has more sense than they realized and didn’t give Lord Campbell an excuse to call for war against Eden for my ‘murder’.”

“Mmmm,” Ellen says. “That would have been a good way to get the fyrd behind him. The King and his eldest son betrayed by the deceitful Christians.” She nods. “They would have lapped that up like honeyed mead.”

***

There isn’t much left in the Keep’s armory – the spears and shields have gone south with Lord Robert and his men, but they manage to get Ariel and the knights looking more or less like rídend. Ellen fetches spare bits of Lord Robert’s mail and armor and Dean has a few pieces laying around in his old room. He grew quickly under Lord Robert’s roof and had new armor made several times. Ariel fits his oldest mail byrnie, a finely wrought one his father had given him when he first left Winchester. The matching armor is long gone, but there is a shield to suit her, and a spear, and decked out in Saxon trousers and tunic she makes a passable shieldmaiden.

The others are not so easy to outfit and they are loathe to wrap their long steel blades and hide them with saddlebags, but by the time their horses have been stripped of their barding and armor and they are armed with spears and shields, they might pass for thegn left by Lord Robert to guard his Keep and Lady. It’s not uncommon for men to tuck their braids under their helms as padding, and not all Saxons wear their beards long, so sitting ahorse there is nothing at first glance that immediately marks them as foreigners.

It’s not a very solid disguise however. Their fine-boned northern mares, horses not bred in the south, stick out, and that combined with everything else will have the sharp-eyed suspicious. It is the best they can do however, Ellen has not the horses to replace their mounts, nor do they have time to spare waiting for the knights to grow whiskers and braids more suited to their cover.

It doesn’t really matter though. They just have to make it to Winchester without being delayed. Not fool the Saxon court.

They spend the evening at the Keep. Dean stops by the shrine in the inner courtyard and prays and makes offering to the gods. He prays for his father’s shade, prays for the strength to avenge his death and the betrayal of both Wessex and Eden. For Castiel and his uncle stuck in Perdition. For Sam and Jo at Lord Campbell’s mercy. For help to see his enemies defeated and his family returned to him. He prays so long his voice grows hoarse, and then he retires to his old bedchamber.

Nothing has been altered since the last time he rode out on campaign with his uncle. When last he stayed here he’d had no idea he would not be returning. He had not packed up his things like he had in Zion days earlier. A packet of letters from Sam and his father are still sitting in a box on the desk. His clothes are still neatly folded in the chests. There are trinkets from his childhood sitting atop the mantelpiece. A horse carved from stone, a pin with a raven, a comb with missing teeth, a rock he’d found with something blue inside that glittered when held up to the light and a fistful of feathers from when he’d made an abortive attempt to learn to fletch arrows a few winters past.

Dean wonders that no one has cleaned it out. Singer’s Keep is not large and Dean’s room is one of the larger, warmer bedchambers. It could have been put to use instead of sitting empty like a tomb for almost a year.

Before he sleeps he unpacks his gear and adds and removes a few things, trading in his ripe, travel-stained socks and undergarments for clean if musty replacements from the chest of his old things. As he repacks everything ready for the morning, he discovers that Missouri has tucked a few extra items in when he wasn't paying attention.  At the bottom of his pack, under the nightshirt wrapped around his circlet, he finds the neatly rolled cloth-of-gold tunic he'd worn back when he first arrived in Zion, a fistful of goldwork - rings and pins - seemingly grabbed at random from the cache he'd had with him, and one of of his Edenish surcoats picked out in Castiel's colors. Neither item is conductive to travelling incognito so Dean had not even thought to bring them, but he finds himself glad for Missouri's interference. Nothing could mark him as clearly as an aetheling as cloth-of-gold, not even a crown, and the distinction could prove helpful.

The bed feels small and the horse-hair mattress is not nearly as soft as the feather bolsters the Edenish line their beds with. Dean lays there uncomfortably for a long while before sleep claims him, and he does not dream easily. In them he is lost in a twisting maze of shifting walls and doorways. He hears Sam calling him, voice young and high, and he runs along the tall stone halls of the Castle in Winchester only to burst through a door and find himself in Zion, in the courtyard, standing before his silent, stone-faced, father. Beneath his beard his face is pale and when he opens his mouth his teeth are black with old blood.

Dean tries to speak, but everything twists again and he is in his chamber in the palace and the door is locked from the outside. Outside he hears Sam again and his uncle now, calling out to him but when the door finally swings open it is Zachariah and Christian standing in the hallway waiting for him, and he is not in Zion at all, he is back in Winchester, in the High Hall, and his grandfather is sitting on his father’s golden throne and Sam and Jo and his uncle are nowhere to be seen and Dean knows in his bones that they are lost and he is alone.

Smiling that smile that crinkles his eyes, the one he’d used when Dean was little and he’d crouch down so they were eye to eye to greet him, his grandfather holds out a hand to him, beckoning. _“Dean,”_ he says. _“I have something wonderful to show you.”_

Dean turns away and runs through the long hall, past the fyrd in full armor, feasting and drinking, and outside. It is not Winchester that unfolds before him though, it’s a field, scrubby outcroppings of trees and gray stone the only breaks in the unrelenting, flat, nothing of it. The air is still, utterly silent save the quiet hiss of wind, and Dean smells ash and blood, tastes it on the back of this tongue. He spins in a circle, searching, and suddenly he is not alone. He is standing in a field still, but all around him lay the broken corpses of the Edenish army. Horses swollen with rot, men slumped bloody and pale, trampled and broken.

Dean has seen worse, but he has never seen so _many._ As far as he can see there is nothing but death and he _knows_ he is dreaming but he _recognizes_ this place and it feels so real and at his feet, those closest to him, they are all wearing Castiel’s colors. He doesn’t want to look but he can’t help it and of course he is there. Right in front of him, bright armor staved in across his chest, sword in the dirt at side. Castiel's helm is gone and there is an arrow, just as Balthazar and Zachariah said, neatly sunk through one eye, leaving the other pale and clouded.

Dean wakes in cold sweat and for a moment the shape of the room around him - the shadows cast by the heavy furniture and the tapestries hung on the wall, the smell of straw and horse and leather - it all seems strange and alien and he doesn’t know where he is. A few deep breaths and his dreams start to fade, details slipping away leaving only thick uneasiness. He remember the last though, that image of death. Maybe because that part is real. That _happened._ Somewhere in Perdition there is a killing field and thousands of Edenish men lay blind and rotting in it. Castiel might well have been laying there still and cold for months.

Maybe Wōden has granted him a glimpse in answer to his prayers. Maybe his dreams were a warning. Dean can’t remember them though only that he was lost and he couldn’t tell if he was in Winchester or Zion…

It is still dark and Dean lays back and tries to sleep again. But the bedchamber his uncle’s hall doesn’t feel like home anymore and when they ride out a few hours later, he is glad to put it behind him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ty to [christi](http://watchingpornwithcas.tumblr.com) for betaing this chapter for me!


	19. Chapter 19

They ride south along nearly the same route Dean took a year past with his thegn on his way to answer his father’s summons. The mood is more somber though, understandably. The King - Dean’s father - is dead and Sam and Castiel held captive, Ellen’s husband and daughter are in similar peril and Ariel and the Edenish knights stand to lose not only their own King but perhaps their homeland with how things stand.

Conversation, such as it is, is sparse and terse. There is no joking around the campfire or good natured teasing.

They push their horses, stopping in villages and towns only to replenish their supplies, not sleep. Camping both avoids questions at shorn-hair and Edenish accents and saves time. When they _do_ stop as long as Ellen, Victor, and Benny do all the talking no one seems to suspect they are anything save what they claim to be – Lord Robert’s Lady and her escort travelling to the Capital. That is gossip and excitement enough and innkeepers and servants are too busy bowing and scraping before Ellen to look close enough to notice Aethelingas or disguised Edenish knights.

Ariel seems relieved that Ellen doesn’t require maids and servants and a tent like an Edenish Lady might, and Ellen seems likewise impressed that Lady Ariel is content to sleep under her horse blanket with a saddle as a pillow. The cool politeness between them turns to something more like distant respect as they make their way south, but Dean is too busy worrying over what awaits them in Winchester to care that his aunt and Castiel’s cousin are getting along.

They hear scraps of fresh news the closer they get to Winchester. The villages and farms are still quiet - the fyrd have not been released home – but merchants and travelers have brought gossip north just the same. There is much talk of King John’s death - blamed upon Edenish treachery or Crowley’s witchcraft depending upon who is telling the tale - and Lord Robert and his men are spoken of as lost to an ambush, but no one seems to know how or where precisely. The one thing all agree on is that Lord Campbell has brought King John’s men back to Winchester and is ruling in his grandson Aetheling Samuel’s name until he can be crowned formally. With Dean married to a foreigner, it is taken as a given that the [witenagemot](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Witenagemot) will chose Sam when the council is called.

Most suspect once that happens the fyrd will ride out again to seek vengeance for their slain King and those lost with Lord Robert. They seem to care little if that vengeance is to be found in Perdition or Eden. None know of the devastation that befell Castiel’s men or that Eden is on the brink of an invasion it has no hope to rebel, instead they think Edenish cowardice is to blame for King John’s death.

Dean itches to speak up, to tell the truth every time he is forced to listen to such lies and falsehoods, but he bites his tongue.

When they arrive, Winchester itself is something of an anti-climax. The fyrd are encamped around the city walls and the streets are full to bursting with loitering soldiers, bored and clearly spoiling for a fight. Lady Ellen is recognized by many and Dean sweats beneath his helm, wondering if he will be spotted, but without gold around his neck he blends in with the other thegn. The men that might know his face – those that he rode with under his uncle – no doubt count among those lost in Perdition.

Benny and Victor peel off to talk amid the men and find out what is being said of the King’s death and of Lord Robert, and Dean and the Edenish escort Lady Ellen through the city and to the castle. It is strange to play the herald and announce her to the guards at the gatehouse, to have to wait to be admitted to his _home._ But Dean plays along. Inside Winchester Castle is full to bursting, the mustered lords idling around the courtyards and halls, as bored as their men out in the streets.

Dean recognizes many of them, but keeps his head down. No one looks twice at him, not even those Lords and Ladies who stop to offer Lady Ellen wildly differing condolences on Lord Robert’s death, or reassurances that he is surely _not_ dead. To Dean’s relief Lord Campbell doesn’t come greet her, but a steward offers his apologies. Dean notes that no mention is made of Sam, even though surely it should be in _his name_ guests are welcomed to the castle. After simpering for a minute over Ellen, the steward shows them to Lady Joanna-Beth’s chambers

They are those usually occupied by Lord Robert when he is in Winchester - large, finely furnished and near the King’s. Lord Campbell shows his favor in giving them to her. There are three guards on the door however, and it is plain she is more or less a prisoner. She is sitting in the widow, chewing on an apple, when they are finally admitted. The steward frowns when Dean and the knights follow Lady Ellen inside instead of staying on the door, but she dismisses him before he can make comment or think too hard upon it and Dean closes the door firmly in his face.

Jo tosses her apple aside and launches herself across the room and into her mother’s arms. Dean steps aside a little and gives them a little privacy, but it makes him smile to see his cousin reunited with her mother. After only a minute Ellen calls him over, “Dean?” and he gives Jo a smile as she turns to look at him curiously.

“Hey little cousin,” he says.

Jo eyes widen comically and then Dean is being hugged nearly as enthusiastically as Ellen. “Dean!” she exclaims, face smooshed into his armor. “He told me you were _dead!_ That the Edenish king killed you!”

Dean puts aside his shield and spear awkwardly so he can hug her back. “I’m fine and I’m pretty sure basically everything you’ve heard about me, Eden and the war is a lie.”

He hears her sniff, but she straightens her expression is controlled. “Sam believed him; he thinks you’re _dead_ Dean _._ ” She lowers her voice. “He said such _awful_ things.”

“Who?” Dean asks though he has a fair idea.

 _“Christian,”_ she spits.

“There’s a shock,” Ellen mutters dryly and Benny snorts in agreement.

“Christian’s a liar,” Dean tells Jo.

“Yes, I know,” she replies with a nod. “I thought he might be making it up. I’m still glad to see you though, and Sam will be so relieved.”  She looks around at Ariel and the knights and back to Dean and her mother. “What are you going to do?” she asks in a whisper. “He killed Uncle John and tricked my father and Sam says he means to get rid of him next.”

“Lord Robert sent word to your mother,” Dean says, nodding towards Ellen. “He’s not dead.” _Yet,_ he doesn’t add. “And as for what I’m going to do, I’m going to do what my father would want me to - see those traitors to their graves.”

Jo smiles. “Good.”

“Where’s Sam?” Dean asks.

“In his rooms, but there’re guards on his door,” Jo says. “I only see him at dinner.”

“He’s okay though? They haven’t hurt him?”

She shakes her head. “He’s _sad,”_ she says. “But he tries not to show it. Christian torments him with his lies though, and Lady Gwen is always hanging around him.” She wrinkles her nose and her tone turns petulant. “I don’t like her - she’s so _old -_ but she’s not nearly as bad as Christian.”

“Where _are_ Christian and Lord Campbell?” Ellen asks warily.

“I don’t know where Christian is, I only see him when I have to sit next to him at dinner and I try to ignore him,” she says. “Lord Campbell is staying in the King’s rooms though.”

An odd expression flits over her face and she chews at her lip for a moment before continuing. “He spends a lot of time in the Queen’s old chambers though. They say he has a witch in there. There’s screaming at night and my maid told me no one is allowed inside.”

Disturbing as it is to think about what his grandfather might be doing in his mother’s old rooms that could involve screaming and secrecy, Dean decides to dismiss that for now and focus on living breathing problems. “Is anyone in my rooms?” he asks.

Jo shakes her head. “I don’t think so, but I the castle is full. I wouldn’t be surprised if Christian or one of his favorites had taken them.”

That sounds about right. Christian would probably _love_ getting to claim Dean’s bed as his own. Getting to rifle through his belongings, the remnants of his childhood. Now that Jo has said it Dean is _certain_ that she is right. Oh well. He has no particular need to visit his old room. Singer’s Hold had been his home the last few years he spent in Wessex anyway.

Since Jo is staring at them curiously anyway, Dean takes a minute to introduce Ariel and the knights to his cousin, and then Lady Ellen has one of the guards on the door fetch Lord Campbell’s steward. He doesn’t seem surprised when she informs him she will stay with her daughter. Dean leads Ion and Ephraim past him and down to the stables to collect their gear. Thankfully the stablehands are busy and while their horses have been seen to, their saddles and gear have been set aside and ignored, not rifled through, which is good. Their contents would no doubt spark curiosity.

Dean stops for a moment to pet Impala, and says a quiet prayer that no one will notice her. She is a big impressive animal and far too fine a horse for a common ridere. With the stables so full there are plenty of lords’ horses around though, so Dean thinks it unlikely any stablehand will recognize her as belonging to him specifically, despite that she’s spent time in these stables over the years and was bred from Winchester stock.

Ion and Ephraim do an admirable job trying to blend in, but they are… short and dark-haired and even with their helms on they do not look quite right. It is also obvious, to Dean at least, that they have never visited Winchester before. They keep looking around, _staring._ They seem to find all the yellow-haired women of the court decked in gold especially distracting. Dean can’t fault them there. Saxon women are no prettier than their Edenish counterparts, but their simple dresses are rather more practical. Many walk around in just one layer of wool or linen with their arms bare. Compared to the layers of silk and voluminous skirts favored in Zion, they might as well be naked.

Dean has to stop halfway back to Jo’s chambers and give then a stern look. “Stop staring,” he hisses, feeling vaguely protective of the ladies and serving girls drawing their eyes. Half of them are probably his distant cousins. “Before someone blackens your eye.”

And amusing as it would be to watch some Lord’s daughter or chamber maid teach them a lesson about keeping their eyes to themselves, they are meant to be incognito.

Both men blush, shamefaced, and keep their heads pointed straight ahead as they continue on their way. Dean leads them back via a circuitous route so he can spy on Sam’s chambers from afar and confirm what Jo had told him. Sure enough there are two big guards standing to either side of the door. “That is where my brother is, and those are the King’s chambers just up the hall,” he tells them. It might come in handy for them to know where they are later. “And the Queen’s,” he adds, nodding towards a door opposite.

Back in Jo’s room they find Ariel dressed in a mix of Saxon clothing borrowed from both women. With her regal bearing she makes a far more convincing Lady of the Court than the knights make thegn. They do not have their plate to change into, but they have their steel swords, and they all seem relieved to ditch their borrowed spears and seaxs and strap them back around their hips.

Dean looks them over and ponders his own gear.

Ellen seems to share his confusion. “On the one hand it’s always best to go into battle with mail on your back,” she says. “But on the other - this is a different sort of battle to the ones you’re used to Dean. Might be that a different sort of armor will serve you better.”

She’s not wrong. In the end he settles for something in between. It seems stupid to go before known traitors – men who betrayed and murdered his father – in anything less than full armor, but Dean needs to make a point. He needs to be instantly recognizable as John’s eldest son, as an Aetheling and the senior authority in Wessex until a new king is chosen. Blending in with the men crowding the castle will not help him. It is his name that gives him power and strength in this place, not his spear. Winchester is _his_ home, not Lord Campbell’s, and unlike Sam, he is not a child that can be spoken for.

So he sheds his plain linen and wool and pulls on fine cloth-of-gold instead, sending a silent thank you to Missouri far away in Zion. If she had not packed it for him he would certainly never have thought to. And that he has a princely amount of gold to deck himself in is thanks to her as well. He is still wearing his thick riding trousers and under the high-necked collar of the tunic is the gleaming mail of Edenish steel Castiel gave to him, but the overall picture he paints in the polished glass is that of a West Saxon Aetheling. His shorn hair ruins the effect somewhat, but it had been cut short before he left Wessex anyway, so no one it will hardly shock anyone.

He belts on his seax, but leaves his spear though he itches to take it with him. It is important that he appears confident in his own authority if he is to wrest control from his grandfather without unnecessary bloodshed. Walking into the High Hall with a spear, like he expects to have to _fight_ for what is his by rights, will make it seem like his grandfather has the upper hand when he does not.

Dean does.

He is the Aetheling and all know it.

He reminds himself of that as Jo and Ellen nervously dress and arrange their hair. The Edenish knights observe their ablutions curiously, especially when Ellen combs out and pins Ariel’s hair into loose waves, so different to the carefully arrangements women in Zion manage to tame their hair up into.

Benny and Victor arrive just before they are due to leave.

The grin Benny gives him as he pulls off his helm goes a long way to settling the sick nerves in Dean’s stomach. “The men aren’t happy,” he starts off, gleeful. “They want to know why a witenagemot hasn’t been called and most of all-”

“Why they are sitting around on their asses in Winchester when they have a king that needs avenging and demons to kill,” Victor finishes. He looks to be in better spirits than Dean has seen since they left Zion.

“Good,” Dean says, relieved though truly they have only confirmed what he already expected. As Ariel had said days earlier – Saxons hate oathbreakers and traitors. Honor is important to them. They want revenge. The fyrd are being denied the glorious battle they have long been promised - the destruction of Perdition - and with their king dead at Crowley’s hands, they are more eager than ever to ride. If Lord Campbell wanted to win them over, he should have ridden on Crowley’s capital after having John killed. If he’d given the men victory and vengeance instead of retreat, he might have won their loyalty.

As it is though, his eagerness to return to Winchester and solidify his claim has left an easy opening for Dean. He wants what the men want, and he can give it to them. Given the choice to ride behind an Aetheling against their sworn enemy or sit bored in camp under a Briton lord, well. It is hardly a choice. Dean just has to take that advantage and turn them on his grandfather before any more lies can be spread.

“Are you nervous?” Jo asks him as Ariel neatens one of Benny’s braids and Victor and Lady Ellen exchange quietly amused looks at his blushing.

Dean opens his mouth to say no, but looking down at his cousin he can see that she is frightened and trying very hard not to show it. “I’m… worried,” he admits. “If I screw this up you and Sam are all that’s left of our House, and I don’t want you to have deal with treason and Crowley and broken treaties all on your own.” Jo straightens a little and nods gravely. “But I know you could,” Dean lies. “You’re young but you’re both clever.”

“You should be King,” Jo blurts awkwardly. “ _Everyone_ knows. They won’t… they _can’t_ keep listening to Lord Campbell. You’re their _prince.”_

“I am,” Dean agrees. “Which is why everything’s gonna be fine. You just have to be strong like you always are. Sam won’t know what’s going on; I need you to stick close to him.”

She nods again.

“We should go,” Ellen tells him. “The guards will follow us, so just give it a few minutes and the way should be clear.” She pulls at her mantle and adjusts the golden bands on her arms. “Don’t wait too long - Jo says Campbell’s been free and easy with the ale and mead to keep the men happy and you don’t want them too drunk. You need them thinking straight.”

“We’ll be fine,” Dean says. “Stick by Sam, Campbell will be expecting you to fuss over him anyway, so play it up.”

“Of course,” she agrees. She gives Jo one last once over and then they are gone.

Listening at the door Dean hears Ellen’s voice and the shuffling of boots as she and Jo are escorted away by the guards. They wait quietly for a time. Dean doesn’t want to arrive until the High Hall is filled. When the corridor outside has fallen silent Dean turns and meets Ariel’s eye.

He offers his arm and slips into Enochian. “My lady?”

She steps in close and rests bejeweled fingers on his forearm. “My _prince_ ,” she returns with a nervous smile.

“You ready brother?” Benny asks quietly from behind.

“As ever,” Dean tells him.

His friend thumps his shoulder and winks, like they are about to ride into battle instead of walk into High Hall to confront his murderous grandfather. Victor gets the door and then he and Benny lead the way out into the castle, Dean and Ariel falling behind, the Edenish knights at their heels. The hallways through the private royal apartments are deserted and Dean has a few moments to calm his nerves and settle his thoughts.

Ariel’s hand is a reassuring weight on his arm, a tactile link between… everything. Castiel’s cousin is able to lend Dean a measure of that quiet strength that seems to run in his husband’s blood with her mere presence, and can attest to the lies and treasons Crowley has woven between their two kingdoms. Between her words and those of Ellen, Jo and hopefully _Sam -_ there is no way his grandfather will be able to maintain the illusion he has spun.

It is not far to the High Hall and they soon start to pass servants and stragglers to dinner. Benny and Victor don’t attract any special attention - just two more thegn when the city is awash in them - but Ariel in her fine dress does, and then of course there is Dean. The servants are too polite to do more than stare, but as they near the Hall they start to encounter pink-cheeked rídereas and thegn that could not fit inside but are still partaking of the king’s – or in this case Lord Campbell’s – hospitality.

They call out: _Aetheling! Aetheling Dean!_ Over the past year he has become so accustomed to jeers and suspicion, that Dean is almost surprised to hear excitement under their shock. They are pleased to see him. Relieved, excited. Instead of wary looks and whispered asides, they follow him; fall in alongside Victor, Benny and the Edenish knights.

They call out questions - _What news from the North Aetheling? What news from Perdition? –_ But for the most part there is just a rumble of excited murmuring and shouting spreading before them. By the time they pass under the heavy carven beams of the doorway to the High Hall, it has spread so that a wall of excited cheering and the thunder of fists slammed against the trestles is what greets them.

Ariel’s fingers tighten on Dean’s arm, but she otherwise doesn’t react at all to the rather overwhelming sight (and sound) of hundreds of Saxons – high-born thegn for the most part but ladies and old lords dotted about too - chanting and yelling. Dean smiles and lifts a hand and the noise somehow seems to triple. He had hoped to be welcomed home, but in truth is humbled at the strength of the reaction. Lord Campbell must have miss-stepped already to have the men so eager to see him. Victor turns to meet his eyes over his shoulder and under his helm Dean can just make out his smirk.  _See?_ he seems to be saying.

Words are not things Dean is skilled with, but perhaps this will be easier than he thought.

With the crowd pressing in on them, eager to touch or get a word in, it seems to take a long time to walk the length of the Hall to the dais with the high table set at one end.

 _And there,_ Dean thinks as he looks up at his grandfather. _There is a mistake._

Lord Campbell is sitting in the throne, in the middle of the long table set up for dinner. He is dressed like a king, gold at his neck and across his brow, a circlet that Dean recognizes as one of his father’s. The tunic he is wearing is familiar too. Cloth-of-gold near identical to that stretched across Dean’s own shoulders. The dark cloak pinned at his throat is Edenish – dark bear fur lined in bright silk. A gift received from Castiel or some other Edenish noble during the Paracleda perhaps. Dean recalls seeing his father wear it at one of the feasts.

It is far too warm in the Hall for such a heavy mantle and Lord Campbell’s face is pink and shining. It is obvious that he has gone through King John’s chambers and dressed up in his finery. He looks like a child dressed up for a festival by his mother, awkward and uncomfortable. The tunic is a little too small and stretches tightly across his stomach.

Sam is sat to one side, though he has risen to his feet and is staring at Dean in shock and transparent joy, and Jo and Lady Ellen are next to him, but he has Christian on his left and some other southern lord Dean only vaguely recognizes next to him. Lady Gwen is next to Lady Ellen and is staring at Dean like she has seen a ghost.

Dean takes all this in in an instant however, his eyes are drawn back to his little brother. He’s grown even taller – must be almost as tall as Dean – and though he is still long-limbed and childish, he is starting to thicken into the strong man he will one day be. He seems unharmed. There are dark smudges under his eyes and his hair hangs down to his shoulders in messy brown waves, but there is a circlet on his head and he doesn’t seem starved or mistreated. But he looks so much older than the little boy Dean has seen in his dreams and memories lately that it has him oddly off balance. But then their eyes meet and he grins widely, cheeks dimpling, and is suddenly undeniably Dean’s little brother.

Beside him Lord Campbell rises to his feet, expression unreadable. Sam’s smile vanishes and he turns away from him, pressing in closer to Jo.

Dean sees a choice before him, smile and greet his grandfather as if nothing is wrong, as if he is simply come to pay his respects at his father’s funeral rites and see that his brother is cared for, or demand his grandfather’s immediately fealty and demand explanation. Expose his lies.

In the end it is not wisdom that guides his tongue, but the fact that his father’s murderer, a traitor, is standing in his Hall, wearing his clothes and sitting in his throne _._ What son could let such an insult pass? What aetheling could allow such an insult to their House? What Saxon could allow a _Briton_ to sit the throne of Wessex?

He doesn’t greet his grandfather – instead he turns and faces the crowded Hall. A raised hand and they fall, if not into silence, then something that is close enough.

“My father’s blood is barely cold and you sit in his Hall feasting and drinking his mead!” Dean calls out. “With the man who betrayed him reigning above you-” Dean points at his grandfather. “- decked in his gold and sitting his throne while half the Saxon fyrd are besieged by our enemies in Perdition.”

The last of the cheering and the murmur of excited conversation is replaced by rather more subdued and questioning mutterings.

 _“Dean,”_ Lord Campbell calls, standing and raising placating hands. “My boy, I know not what lies the Edenish have spun you, but I assure you, none grieve our King’s betrayal more. I have lost a good-son, and you and your brother your father too young.”

 _“Lies?”_ Dean scoffs. “The _Edenish_ haven’t spun me any lies _._ They know nothing of what has befallen Wessex. I have eyes grandfather, and ears. You wear John’s crown and sit on his throne. You have no right to. You are not Aetheling, you are not Saxon, and yet you sit there as if you were our _King._ ”

“I rule only in Aetheling Samuel – my _grandson’s_ \- name,” Lord Campbell insisted. “As I know King John and Mary would have wished.”

“All King John would have wished for is your head,” Dean spits. “Traitor. Liar. Oathbreaker _._ Were you even man enough to murder your King yourself? Or did you have your dog Christian do it for you?”

Christian, who has been scowling down at Dean from the moment he appeared leaps to his feet at the accusation. “The only dog in here is you Dean,” he sneers, “The Edenish king’s _bitch_. Have you whelped for him yet?”

“ _Christian!”_ Lord Campbell thunders. “Your cousin has been lied to by his foreign husband, but you will still show him the respect he deserves.”

“Oh I’ve been lied to,” Dean agrees, “But it was not the Edenish, it was my own flesh and blood. My cousin Christian, who paid Saxon gold to Edenishmen to have me assassinated, and _you,_ my own grandfather. You had my father murdered, you betrayed my uncle, and now you plot against my brother.”

The crowd at Dean’s back grows loud and restless at his words. He knows that all he is saying rings true, that standing before them in his Aetheling’s gold - John’s son and Lord Robert’s favorite - he has their ears in a way his grandfather never will. Lord Campbell waves his hands again, trying to calm the noise, but is ignored for the most part.

“What I don’t understand is _why!_ ” Dean more or less yells. “You are not Aetheling, you can never be king, and Sam and I are more your blood than Christian or Gwen or any other of your kin, and yet you would see us dead? For what? So you might sit there as regent for a few years before some other, more worthy man removes you? When I heard of my father’s betrayal, I could not believe you were a party to it!” Dean has to take a breath and calm himself, his words trying to trip over each other. “What did Crowley offer you, Grandfather? What was your price for the murder of your own flesh and blood?”

Christian opens his mouth to say something but Lord Campbell roars over the top of him. “All I have done has been for my family! I made no deal with Crowley for a crown or throne!”

He sounds so indignant that Dean almost believes him. “Then what!?” he demands.

Before Lord Campbell can reply Christian starts yelling again. “The prince is a traitor!” he shouts. “He means to steal Prince Samuel’s crown!” Dean’s eyes dart aside to his brother at that to find Sam glaring at Christian, Lady Ellen’s arm on his shoulder like she is restraining him from punching their cousin for the whole court to see. A part of Dean wishes she’d let go. “His Edenish King has sent him here armed with lies!” Christian finishes.

“My _husband,”_ Dean replies. “Didn’t send me anywhere. He is either dead or languishing in Crowley’s dungeons. But you already knew that didn’t you?”

Christian scoffs. “More lies,” he says dismissively. “Your coward of a husband turned tail and is cowering with his knights in Zion. He left us to fend for ourselves in Perdition! He is the reason our King and Lord Robert are lost!”

“LIES!” Ariel’s accented West Saxon cuts through the rising hubbub and has all eyes upon her. “Prince Dean speaks the truth,” she says, voice ringing out clearly, turning to face the crowded hall. “My cousin, King Castiel, was lost in battle almost two months past. He is dead or imprisoned, as Prince Dean says.” The murmuring grows louder again at the confirmation of this new gossip. “I was there!” Ariel continues. “Our Saxon allies were not at our rendezvous, instead we were ambushed. Traitors and spies have been working against us from within both our courts. Together our armies would have ground Crowley into the dirt and he knew it. He could not best us in battle so he has poisoned Wessex and Eden from within instead. Crowley’s worms in Zion tried to lay the blame for Castiel’s defeat upon King John; they said the Saxons had betrayed us.”

There is offended muttering instead of quiet murmuring at that accusation.

“I don’t know who you are,” Lord Campbell starts. “But you can’t just--”

Ariel ignores him and keeps talking. “The Prince told me that no Saxon would break an oath like the one his father made to Castiel. One he sealed with his own son’s hand in marriage. This man,” she points at Lord Campbell. “Has broken your King’s oath. While you sit here and feast, Crowley marches upon Eden. Zion might have already fallen. And not only has Lord Campbell broken the treaty between Wessex and Eden and made oathbreakers of you all - he has betrayed his own king, his princes and _all of you._ Because when Eden lies in ruins, when Crowley has grown even stronger, where will he turn next?”

She does not need to answer the question, it is clear as day Wessex will be next.

“You should be Perdition right now,” Dean says. “Feasting in _Crowley’s_ halls, drinking his ale and eating his meat. Instead you cower here in Winchester.”

“Enough!” Lord Campbell shouts. “Enough of this madness! If you will not listen to reason Dean, I will have you locked up until you will.”

Dean turns and gives his grandfather a scathing look. “You will have me locked up?” he asks skeptically. “ _You_ , Lord Campbell of Campbellfyrd, propose that you will have _me_ , Aetheling Dean, son of John, King of the West Saxons, locked up in the High Hall of Winchester Castle, ancestral seat of my own House? On whose authority?”

“It brings me no joy, but in your brother’s name,” he replies.

“No!” Sam yells, young voice high and cutting.

Lord Campbell turns to him, his eyebrows up around his stolen crown.

Sam falters a little, his throat bobbing as he swallows, but he glares and sets his shoulders. “You will do _nothing_ in my name!” he declares. “You killed my father! I don’t know how, but I know you were behind it _and_ you betrayed my uncle.” He licks his lips and takes a breath, visibly steadying himself.

 _“Sam_ -” Lord Campbell says, reaching out like he wants to comfort him.

“You told me Dean was dead!” Sam blurts, batting his hand away. “You said the Edenish King murdered him and I was the only heir left.  And you... you didn’t say it outright, but I knew if I fought you, you would hurt my aunt and Lady Jo.”

From behind him the two aforementioned ladies glare at Lord Campbell.

The noise in the hall has risen to outright bickering now. Accusations and suspicions traded shamelessly and loudly. Dean hears only snatches but none of the hostility is directed at him or Sam.

Lord Campbell finally seems to realize how precarious his position is. “Enough of this!” he roars. “Escort my grandsons to their rooms!” A few thegn standing guard near the high table move to obey but there is sudden, sharp, shift to the mood in the Hall and they hesitate.

Benny apparently loses his patience. “Why the _fuck_ are you idiots letting some sheep-herder order you around like your king!?” he demands the Hall at large. “Here is my Aetheling!” he yells, pointing. “Here is Dean, son of John, son of Henry, and if any of you would rather have that whore-mouthed Briton for a king then you aren’t West Saxons at all!”

It is hardly eloquent, but it gets the point across.

“ _I_ will act as regent until a new king is named,” Dean proclaims. “As eldest son of the King it is my right.” He faces down his grandfather. “Step down Lord Campbell. You have no right to rule in my brother’s name.”

“You’re an Edenish Prince now!” he exclaims. “You cannot rule as regent - you would just be a puppet! I have the right of blood to rule in Samuel’s name and I invoke that right!”

The crowd grows restless once more, the tense atmosphere turning to excitement, and Dean grows wary.

“I am his grandfather,” Lord Campbell continues. “It is my right to see him guided and protected!”

“And I am his _brother!”_ Dean roars indignantly.

“You’re practically a stranger to him and consort to the Edenish King who betrayed us! You cannot be trusted! You would steal your brother’s throne and have _Christian_ Edenish brats succeed you!”

Dean sees where this is going. He beats his grandfather to the punch. “I am no traitor, but I am willing to let the gods decide who is worthy,” he says.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Victor head’s whip around to stare at him and at the high table Ellen and Sam both look panicked. Christian smirks.

“Very well,” Lord Campbell says. “It pains me that it comes to this Dean, but I will do what I must – I accept your challenge.” The Hall erupts into violent exclamation. Lord Campbell’s next words are shouted hoarsely. “Since you have issued the challenge, I will choose my weapon first, as is my right!” He turns and calls to a cupbearer hovering awkwardly nearby. “Fetch my sword, boy!”

 _Sword?_ Dean thinks in surprise, but when the boy runs over the wall and pulls down the long blade hanging in a place of pride, he sees why his grandfather sounds so smug. It is his father’s sword. The iron longsword etched with John’s name and title, forged for him when he became king. It _should_ have been buried with him. Wearing John’s gold Dean could dismiss, crass though it is, but to keep his _sword_?

If there had been any doubt in Dean’s mind that his grandfather was somehow a pawn in all this, that he was blind to the plots against John and Robert, the last remnants burn away in an instant. Lord Campbell lifts the sword - as if testing its balance - but Dean knows it is perfect. His father had let him hold it sometimes when he was little and first learning to fight. All freemen are required to own a seax, a spear, and a shield incase their king calls them to arms, but only the rich bother with swords. They are difficult and costly to forge, require more skill to wield than a spear and are far less useful atop a horse.

Lord Campbell, like most of the great lords of Wessex, favors one mostly as a status symbol. Dean, as the son of the king, of course knows how to wield one, but like most thegn he prefers his spear. His grandfather’s preference, from what he recalls of the man, goes the other way. Despite the age difference, there is a chance with a sword he might be Dean’s equal. Lord Campbell seems to think so. His face is a picture of stern dignity as he walks slowly around the high table to face Dean below.

John’s blade seems to fit his grasp well, for all that he has no right to it. The golden hilt and polished blade catches the light of the fires and torches lighting the hall, glinting warmly. Decked in his stolen gold with the gleaming sword in his grip he looks like a king. The lie of it is almost perfect.

Except he has chosen the blade just for that reason, so he will look like a king.

Dean doesn’t need to _look_ like a king. He _is_ an Aetheling.

“Victor!” he calls. “Your spear!” His thegn hefts the long shaft of hardened oak and tosses it to him. Dean catches it easily. “I have chosen my weapon Grandfather,” he says and sees realization dawn on his face, that studied dignity slipping away.

He doesn’t wait for his grandfather to get within range for them to trade blows. He isn’t some Edenish knight more concerned with chivalry and honor than winning, more than plain common sense.

Dean’s good with a spear.

Always has been.

His grandfather’s eyebrows rise as he realizes his stupidity and he lifts John’s sword as if to guard himself, but he’s close now, not close enough to strike out at Dean, but close enough that he has no hope of getting the blade up in time, and besides, it’s a shield he needs. Dean lifts his spear and takes aim. His stomach. The soft flesh that will give easily and grant him a painful, lingering death.

There is no dramatic duel for the throne, for Sam and Jo and Wessex. They do not trade blows in some heroic test of skill, John’s blade lifted against his own son or however Lord Campbell had envisioned it.

Dean, every inch the soldier his father and uncle raised him to be, strikes down his enemy as quickly and efficiently as possible. He balances his weight and throws his spear hard and sure long before his grandfather is close enough to so much as spit at him.

Lord Campbell is dead on his feet.

Hard iron parts his stolen cloth-of-gold and leaves it blooming red. He stumbles backwards a few steps, the long oak spear protruding from him grotesquely and throwing off his balance before he trips over his on feet and falls to the floor. He makes a noise – finally—a  shocked exhalation as the air is forced from his lungs. Darkness spreads across the rushes around him. One of his hands flounders in it while the other clutches at the spear like he thinks he can pull it out. The metallic smell of blood and the stink of ruptured guts overpowers the smell of ale, meat and smoke that permeates the High Hall.

Silence falls save for the shuffling of feet as people shove and climb onto trestles and benches to get a better view of what is happening.

Lord Campbell is groaning and feebly twitching when Christian breaks the hush with a yell. He leaps over the table and charges Dean, a sword in hand. Behind him Sam scrambles at the high table like he might chase him with his meat knife and Benny and Victor burst into motion as well, but they are between Dean and the crowd and cannot intercept. Dean darts forward and snatches his father’s sword from Lord Campbell’s weakened fingers. He doesn’t get it up in time to block Christian’s wild swing with any sort of finesse, but he knocks it off target and all it does slice a tear into his tunic and bruise his shoulder through his mail.

People crowd in around them, blades drawn but hesitating, uncertain if they should interfere. Dean sees his thegn, his brother and Ariel out of the corner of his eye, but ignores them and focuses himself entirely upon his cousin. They circle each other, Lord Campbell panting and coughing his way through his death throes ignored at their feet. Christian glares at Dean with such hatred that it twists his face into something hideous and deformed. Letting go of that long held guilt at _despising_ his own kin, Dean sneers right back at him.

When Christian yells and attacks, Dean takes vicious pleasure in once and for all proving that his cousin really _is_ lackluster in the melee. He wasn’t his equal a year past, and Dean has only grown quicker with a sword living amidst the North. They barely know the sharp end of a spear from the blunt, but the Edenish are fierce with those steel longswords of theirs and Dean and his thegn have picked up a thing or living among them. His father’s sword is heavy iron, different from Edenish steel, but he feels sure with it in his hand. A few mindful blocks, a parry then a boot heel to the knee and Christian is stumbling. Disarming him and sending his sword skittering to the floor is almost easy.

Around them the crowd cheers, eager for more blood. Their hesitation is gone - Christian’s cruelty won him none of the respect Lord Campbell had enjoyed. Dean swings his sword and his cousin thoughtlessly scrambles back and tries to block the blow with his bare hands. Old iron cuts through flesh and bone easily. Christian gasps as he loses a few fingers and falls to his knees, his mangled, red hands held up before him. His face goes pale and slack in shock and fear. Dean savors it.

“You were _never_ better than me cousin,” he says, vicious. “And it has nothing to do with king’s blood or crowns.” Dean gestures at the crowd at his back. “Any thegn in this hall could best you.”

Christian’s eyes flash in anger and he practically growls. His teeth are red where he has cut the inside of his mouth. “You think you’ve won?!” he hisses. “You’re just some northerner’s _bitch_! I’ve _seen it!”_ he reminds Dean spitefully, “I saw you with your ass in the air, moaning on his cock like a slut!” He laughs. “You’ll never be king!”

Dean adjusts his grip on his father’s sword and pretends he feels nothing at the words, at the shameful reminder. “Maybe not,” he agrees. “But unlike you and grandfather, I didn’t come here to steal a throne. The witenagemot will choose the next king, as they always have.”

Christian snorts in disbelief. His arms are dark and slick with blood, his face is pale. “And you’ll just go along with whatever the old greybeards say?” he demands. “Let a _boy_ sit on the throne? Because it’ll be Sam they pick - it won’t be _you_. They won’t name the Christian King’s whore King of the West Saxons.” He smiles viciously. “It was Lord Campbell you know, who came up with that. Didn’t have the stomach to kill you so he sold you off instead.”

Dean knows he should just end it, remove Christian’s lying head from his body but… a glance towards his grandfather shows he is beyond answering any questions, and there is so much Dean doesn’t know…

“It took monthsto convince _Uncle John_ , but a few rumors about you sharing your blankets with Benedikt, about your _closeness_ to your big strong thegn and he saw the wisdom in marrying you off before there were bastards to worry about.”

It is odd that in the light of all that has happened Dean is still strangely offended that his father would think him so stupid as to take such risks, (and with _Benny_ of all people?), but at least it explains a few things that have kept him awake wondering. Like why his father didn’t make sure he was prepared for his wedding night even if the marriage itself was to be kept from him until the last moment. If he thought Benny was Dean’s lover… then he thought him well versed in laying with other men. And later - he’d told Dean that he should keep _Benny_ and Victor with him.

Dean views his last few interactions with his father in a new light. Suddenly their parting, his _abandonment,_ hurts a little less.

“After,” Christian gloats, “After your _husband_ fucked you bloody little cousin, I told your father how much you liked it. How you rode that Edenish cock as hard as you ride that horse of yours --”

Dean decides he’s heard enough. Christian’s head doesn’t come off as easily as his fingers, but he still manages it in one stroke. His father’s sword is red with traitors’ blood. He doesn’t wipe it. Wherever John is, whatever they did with his corpse, Dean will see it returned to him and he thinks his father would enjoy it being put back in his palm bloody.

“Well thank fuck for that,” Benny mutters into the silence as Christian’s neck spurts messily across the rushes. “Been waiting for someone to shut that moron up for years.”

The charged atmosphere dissolves almost instantly.

There’s sniggering and murmuring and a bit of cheering as Dean walks over to where his grandfather has crawled to sit propped up against the dais steps, spear still protruding from his guts. His face is wet and moon-pale, his hands red where they are clutching at the pole skewering him. He’s almost bled out. As Dean approaches he looks up, eyelids fluttering. “Dean,” he says, voice a low rasp. “… _Dean…”_

Dean stops and crouches at his side. He wants to hate his grandfather, but it doesn’t come as easy as with Christian. “Why?” he asks, cold and hard.

His grandfather looks at him beseechingly, nothing proud or dignified at all in his countenance anymore. “Not… not the throne,” he manages, wheezing, spittle pink with blood on his lips and flecked in his beard. “Didn’t… want to hurt-” He coughs wetly. “-you… or Sammy.” He’s looking at Dean so sincerely that it’s hard to believe he’s lying, even though he must be. _“Crowley,”_ he spits, and that seems like real hatred there. “ _Demonspawn! ..._ He… knows what you… want. I couldn’t…. say no.”

Dean frowns, trying to understand what he’s hearing. That Crowley made his grandfather an offer he couldn’t refuse? _What_ if not the throne? Sam appears at his elbow and they exchange a look.

“So… stupid,” their grandfather whispers, sounding utterly defeated. “M’sorry…” His head lolls drunkenly. “ _Mary_ … _forgive_ …” Dean waits but there is no more.

He dies surprisingly gracefully for a man holding in his own guts and stinking of piss - a long exhale and then nothing.

Sam stares down at him with a confused frown on his face, like he isn’t sure what he should be feeling. He looks up to Dean for guidance. “It’s okay Sammy,” Dean tells him, smirking at Sam’s expected eye roll since he’s been _‘too old!’_ to be called that since he was about 12. It hits him then, the overwhelming presence of his little brother - the way he sighs and the look on his face - it’s so achingly familiar and Sam’s suddenly right _there_ and alive and tall and skinny and sulky and Dean wants to squeeze the breath out of him because he thought he’d never see him again.

He doesn’t of course, but he does grip his shoulder and give him a brief one-armed embrace suitable for a brotherly reunion considering their audience. “You’ve shrunk,” Sam mutters, smug.

It is Dean’s turn to roll his eyes.

The crowds in the hall are talking excitedly but all still standing, watching, waiting. Dean turns from his brother and says what he has to: “The Campbells betrayed our king! Lord Robert and his men are besieged in Perdition and Crowley’s main force is Eden. We will ride out and relieve our countrymen, then hunt down Crowley and crush his demons once and for all!”

They cheer.

Dean lets them quieten on their own before he continues. “I will call the witenagemot and a new King will be named once we have avenged King John.” Dean picks up a goblet from the high table, he doesn’t know whose it is and it’s only half-filled with mead, but that doesn’t really matter. He holds it aloft and there is scrambling as everyone tries to find a cup all at once. “To King John!” he toasts and is echoed thunderously.

The mead is good, but not as sweet as Edenish wine.

***

Christian and Lord Campbell’s bodies are dragged from the hall and the feast continues long into the night. Dean sits at the high table with Sam, Ellen, Jo and Ariel - the tattered remnants of his family and one honored guest – for long enough to be seen and cheered and toasted by the increasing drunken court and fyrd, and then he retires, taking them with him.

They retreat to his father’s solar, the room with the map painted across one wall and the long table covered in papers.

Sam seems to be in a sort of daze. He smiles constantly, grinning at Dean whenever their eyes meet - though he and Jo did seem to join in with the toasting very enthusiastically, so he could just be drunk. The two of them stand together, pink-cheeked and whispering. Jo still has her hand on Sam’s arm even though he hardly needs to help her navigate her way around one smallish room. Ellen hovers behind them sending amused looks their way when they aren’t paying attention.

Dean plonks himself in a chair, puts his boots on the table and tosses his circlet down beside them, then rubs the back of his head in tired distraction. He wants to sleep, but there are things they must all speak of before he can collapse into a nice warm bed. For that they have achieved in the past few hours, he still feels as though he is standing at the foot of a mountain he must climb.

Again it is Benny who breaks the silence. “In these rumors, why is it always _me_ supposedly plundering your princely ass?” he demands of Dean. “Why is it never Victor or Kevin?”

“The way I heard it told,” Victor says lightly, “It was our Aetheling doing the plundering.”

Benny’s face twists up even more. “When did you hear this?” he asks. “You didn’t actually believe it did you?”

Victor shakes his head. “No. Dean’s been turning down beautiful maids and handsome lords as long as I’ve ridden with him. Only a fool would think _you_ , Thegn Benedikt,would be the one to break his resolve.” He sniffs. “Though at least you bathe with some regularity,” he concedes.

Dean sighs and ignores his thegn as they continue bickering and instead settles his attention upon his brother. Sam and Jo are standing off to one side talking in what seem to be very urgent little bursts, nodding at one another in agreement or perhaps commiseration. Several ideas roll around in Dean’s head. He prods at them a little as he glances around the room.

His aunt and Lady Ariel are staring at the markers on the map on the wall and comparing them to the missives and campaign notes scattered across the table. Ion and Ephraim are standing nearby, but both are listening to Victor and Benny argue about who, hypothetically, made the most believable lover for Dean - instead of paying attention to the ladies. The other Edenish knights have fallen into a loose guard formation around the room. Two flanking the door, one at Ariel’s back and one at Dean’s.

Dean is thinking about making some disparaging comment about his thegn sitting in the corner gossiping about his imagined love affairs while the Edenish knights attend to their duties with quiet competency, when there is a knock upon the door. Everyone tenses and turns. At Dean’s nod the knights at the door open it, their hands on their swords.

Lady Gwen stands in the doorway, hands raised peaceably.

“Aetheling,” she says, making eye contact with Dean only. “I must speak with you.”

Dean lets her stand there for a moment, lets her worry, and then nods. “Very well.”

She sighs in relief and steps inside, making her way quickly to stand before him. Dean doesn’t bother standing. To say that he is suspicious and distrustful of all his Campbell cousins would be an understatement.

Gwen bows respectfully. “I am sorry for your father’s death,” she says.

“Really?” Dean asks.

She nods. _“Truly,”_ she replies, emphatically. “I was not privy to all Lord Campbell’s plots, but I knew what role he intended for me, and even had King John been a tyrant – and he was not – I would have mourned him.”

“What role?” Ellen asks suspiciously, stepping up to stand behind Dean, Ariel close on her heels.

Gwen glances at Sam. “I was to marry Prince Samuel, though neither of us wanted it.”

Jo scowls and shifts closer to Sam. Dean watches the exchange with interest.

“An arranged marriage is hardly unusual,” he drawls. “Certainly not worth _killing_ anyone over.”

“He took Lisa,” she says bluntly. “My… my favorite.”

Dean frowns, remembering. The dark-haired Lady Lisa, the Edenish ‘bed-warmer’ who’d taught him his please and thank yous before he left Winchester.

“Please,” Gwen continues. “She’s in the dungeon and…” She trails off. “I am not sure, but I think your bastard brother is down there too.”

Dean jerks up at that, straightening in his seat. _“Adam?”_ he asks. “Adam is in the dungeon?” His half-brother is meant to be on a farm somewhere with his mother, raising… sheep. Or goats or something. Dean curses himself for not even giving a thought to the poor boy because _of course_ his grandfather would get rid of him. Bastard or not he was acknowledged as John’s son and he had a claim, feeble though it was.

“And there is something else,” Gwen says, drawing herself up stiff and proud. “But I will not speak of it until Lady Lisa is returned safe to my keeping.”

Dean stands. “We’ll go look for her, but if she’s dead or gone, you’re telling me everything you know regardless.”

Gwen purses her lips but nods in acceptance.

Music and singing can still be heard from the High Hall and echoing from around the castle in general. As they make their way down to the dungeons they pass little clumps of celebrating courtiers, soldiers and servants alike. Their greetings are exuberant.

The dungeons are… _full._ Dean looks around in shock. Every door is latched closed, dirty faces peering out of the narrow peekholes, calling out pitifully. The guards standing watch stare at Dean and Sam slack-jawed.

“Where’s the Aethelingas’ brother?” Victor demands.

The guards glance at one another nervously. “Aahhh…”

Dean crosses his arms and glares at them. “Where is my half-brother?” he asks. “Take me to him immediately or you’ll take his place.”

“Aetheling,” the guard starts hesitantly. “We have orders not to let anyone speak to the bastard.”

“Orders from who?” Victor snaps. “Lord Campbell? Thegn Christian? Because maybe you didn’t hear stuck down in this hole, but they’re both dead.”

“And I’m not above getting my sword wet again,” Dean adds.

They lead the way to what appears to be the darkest, most disgusting corner of the entire place. Dean has had little cause to explore the place and he does not think he has ever come so deep. The walls are wet and it stinks of brackish water and filth. His heart sinks at the thought of his half-brother stuck in such a place for the gods knew how long. To his dismay, the guards don’t open a door, but instead a trapdoor. The feeble light of the torches they carry doesn’t reach down very far, but peering down Dean can just make out the pale smudge of a curled up body at the bottom of the narrow pit.

“Get him _out,”_ he snarls at the guards, “ _Now.”_

A rope ladder is fetched and eventually it is Ariel, slenderest and strong, who descends down to help the boy up. Her dress is ruined by the time she makes it back up. Dean and Victor pull the pathetic little figure up out of her arms easily. Adam is younger than Sam, Dean knows that, and quick math tells him he must be 7 or 8 - but he seems younger, a shaking bundle of sticks. He’s filthy, stinking and starved. Ellen pulls off her mantle and wraps the cloth around the shaking boy.

Sam steps in close and tells Dean in a low, mournful aside: “I didn’t know. Is he going to be okay?”

“We need to get him warm, clean him up and get some food into him,” Ellen says, and that is answer enough. Dean nods and hefts the awfully silent and limp boy into his arms. He barely weighs anything.

Gwen is cringing off to one side, clearly distressed at the state of the child but obviously still thinking of her lover. “Lady Lisa,” Dean tells the guards. “The Edenish woman. Release her to Lady Gwen.” They both nod. “Victor, Ion, remain with my cousin.” He gets more nods.

“Benny,” Dean calls as he leads them back out of the dungeon.

His thegn falls into step beside him. “Aetheling?”

“See those two assholes get what’s coming to them,” he hisses. “I want their fucking heads on spikes come morning.”

“With pleasure,” he replies.

“And see who else they have locked up; come give me names when you have them. See no one dies before I have a chance to make sure they all belong here.”

Benny salutes and then drops back.

In the panic of seeing to Adam, Dean forgets what Gwen had said, the other information she’d held over his head.

A doctor comes and once Adam has been bathed so he can be properly examined, he proclaims him starved and suffering from a chill. With care and warmth he says he should recover. Ellen takes charge of him, setting up a cot before the fire in Jo’s outer chamber, piling the shivering boy in furs and coaxing bitter willow tea down his throat.

With the filth of the dungeon washed off him, he looks more like Dean than Sam even. Dark blonde hair and a scattering of freckles across his nose. His eyes are blue, but there is no doubt they are brothers. Almost instantly Dean feels that same sense of responsibility over him that he has for Sam or Jo. He cannot bear to think what would have befallen him if Gwen had not come to see him. He would have gone to bed and slept warm and safe while poor Adam was locked in the dungeons right beneath him.

How long until Dean would have thought to check them? Would he have even? His plan is to ride within days. It could have been _months_ before he thought of his half-brother or the prisoners locked up below. Most likely he would have been dead long before he discovered him. A little skeleton in a hole.

Dean is tried and doesn’t want to know what Christian has done to his rooms, so he stays in his father’s. Lord Campbell has altered them little. There are extra chests with his clothes in the bedchamber but little else is different. According to the map in the solar, it is not even a week’s ride to [Lundenwic](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aldwych) and that is where Crowley will be keeping Castiel.

Sleep comes to Dean surprisingly easily.

***

Gwen is at his door not long after dawn. The castle is silent, sleeping off the excesses of the night before, and Gwen herself is withdrawn.

“Your lady?” Dean asks as he leads her to the table in the solar. One end has been cleared of maps and papers and a breakfast is spread.

“She will recover,” Gwen tells him. “She was not so poorly mistreated as your poor half-brother.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” Dean says, stirring honey into his tea. It is not as good as he remembered. He finds he misses the bitter northern stuff.

Gwen nods her thanks. “Have you been into the Queen’s Chambers?” she asks bluntly.

“No?”

“Lord Campbell was keeping something in there,” she tells him haltingly. “Or someone.”

Dean recalls Jo’s talk of witches. “The witch?” he asks dubiously.

“I think it is a demon,” Gwen says quietly, like she is scared the thing will overhear her. “Even Christian wasn’t allowed in there.”

“And this is what you didn’t tell me last night?” Dean asks.

“Yes. Be careful, whatever it is… it’s some twisted thing he brought back from Perdition.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Perhaps it _is_ a demon then. You didn’t see it?”

“No. No one has. We’ve heard it though. Heard Lord Campbell talking to it.” She pauses, her face screwing up in disgust. “ _Singing_ to it.”

Curiosity has Dean calling up a few sober thegn and investigating immediately. They arm themselves with salt and blessed water and iron chains, and then approach the Queen’s chambers.

Gwen accompanies them, but hangs back at the door, pale and frightened.

There is nothing untoward in the solar. It is much as Dean recalls from his childhood. A dusty shrine to a woman long dead. Untouched in over a decade. There are footprints tracked across the filthy carpets though, trails leading back forth from the door to the inner chamber. It is locked and no one has the key, so they have to break it.

Inside the bedchamber is as dusty as the solar. There are heavy drapes across the shuttered windows and all is still and silent, save a rustle and a low steady rattle from the bed.

To start with Dean doesn’t really know what he is looking at – it is a demon, that is plain - her eyes are black, her lips are blue and her skin is white and creamy – but… but she is dressed in a rich dress, her yellow hair is carefully braided and she is decked in gold. The demon licks her lips and watches them with black eyes, tense like a snake waiting to strike. There is a faint charred stink hanging in the air and Dean realizes that she is chained with iron. Her skin smokes as she twists to take them in, lips pulled back in a sneer.

Dean stares, wondering what sick purpose she could have served. A plaything for his grandfather to torture? Decked in jewels and chained up in his dead daughter’s bed though? The demon even looks a bit like her – blonde and tall and beautiful despite the shroud of death clinging to her. And then time itself seems to slow down as Dean looks at the hissing thing on the bed and realizes that he _knows_ her.

It sniffs the air like it can scent his horror and turns to stare directly at him.

With a slick insect flick, its black eyes are green. A familiar, _awful_ green.

“Dean?” she says, voice high and sweet. Sweeter than the honey he’d mixed with this tea. Dean’s heart aches even as it resonates with something that might be joy. “My sweet baby is that you?”

It’s _Mary_.

“Mom?” Dean whispers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **AN 5/7/15:** I'm not writing atm, but this is still my top priority when I get back into it. I can't say *when* this story will finally be finished, but it's not abandoned. Leaving me passive aggressive/guilt trip comments isn't encouraging fyi, they just make me want to take the story down. I write for fun in my spare time, and as much as I hate to leave people hanging, this is not my job.
> 
> Thank you for your patience and for the encouragment. xx val


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